


30 Days of Mystrade

by nothingventurred (nothingventured)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Arguing, Cuddling, Cute, Dancing, Dating, Fighting, Fluff, Fluffy, Holding Hands, Kissing, M/M, Oblivious!Greg, Parentlock, Sex, Sweet, Wedding, awkwardness ensues, doing something ridiculous, getting married, implied sex, klutzy Greg is klutzy, mystrade, wearing each others' clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 28,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingventured/pseuds/nothingventurred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of related drabbles for the 30 day OTP challenge, featuring my favourite pairing. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: Holding Hands

"Mr. Holmes!"

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade's shoes smacked against the wet London street as he chased after the ginger man, his coat billowing behind him. A cup of coffee was clutched in his left hand, and a very expensive-looking, custom-made umbrella in his right. The elder Holmes had left his coveted umbrella behind at a crime scene after an unfortunate row with his brother, the world's only Consulting Detective. The grey-haired man's legs pumped faster, trying to catch up with Mycroft, who was storming away at an alarmingly quick pace that betrayed his plump frame.

 

"You forgot your..." he didn't get to finish his sentence, as he tripped over the curb and landed flat on his face, his hands scraping against the ground, the coffee he had been carrying now splattered both on the concrete and all over him. "Shit!" he swore, quickly trying to pick himself up off the ground to catch up with the elusive Mycroft Holmes.

 

"Inspector?"

 

The elder Holmes was staring down at the DI with a curious expression on his face, his tone neutral. Greg's head snapped up, and he felt the tips of his ears turning pink. He scrambled up from the ground, picking up the (thankfully undamaged) umbrella and thrust it toward the other man. "I ah," he cleared his throat, "I believe this is yours? You left it back there after that fight with the Consulting Prick." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, then chuckled and took the umbrella, his hand brushing against the DI's for a beat longer than necessary. "Thank you, Inspector." he said, a half-smirk toying at his thin, pink lips.

 

Gregory swallowed again and nodded; why was his mouth so dry... "I...um...right." he pulled his hand away and reached up to rub at the back of his neck, looking very much like a schoolboy who had just been caught doing something naughty. "Well ah...right then. See you around, I guess." Mycroft nodded and made an affirmative noise, then glanced down at the DI's ruined coat. "You should get yourself cleaned up, Inspector," he remarked, quirking his eyebrow. "You're a mess."

 

Greg looked down at himself; he was indeed a mess. Dirt and coffee splattered across his coat, along with some of the blood from the body at the crime scene that he had conveniently tripped over. "Uh, yeah," he chuckled nervously, "I guess I should." Mycroft nodded at him, then hooked his umbrella over his arm. "Good day, Inspector." He turned on his heel and strode away without another word, disappearing around the corner of the building. Greg gaped after him, then swallowed and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He looked down at himself and cringed, wondering how long it would take to get the stains out of his coat. He turned away, still shaking his head, trying to clear his thoughts of one Mycroft Holmes and his umbrella.


	2. Day Two: Cuddling Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two of the challenge.

 

  Lestrade arrived on the crime scene with weary eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his hair mussed and his jacket wrinkled. He had tried to quit smoking for years, at his ex-wife's incessant nagging, but always pulled out his trusty pack of fags whenever he was stressed or needed a boost. Which was most days, as the man was on call constantly, and he did have to deal with the Consulting Prick on a daily basis, after all. He took a long drag of the cigarette before tossing it on the ground and smashing it with the heel of his shoe. He glanced at his watch; 5:14 a.m. "Too early for this shit," he grumbled to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets and making his way toward the body, which was now covered by a black tarp.

  The case was typical, a murder made to look like a hit-and-run accident, and Sherlock had it figured out in minutes, though it seemed to take him a bit longer than usual to get around the scene. He was walking as if he was uncomfortable, with a hint of pain, and every time he looked at John, Lestrade could have sworn he saw the consulting detective blush. He was confused at first, but a knowing smirk appeared on his face when he figured out why the two were acting so different.

  "Oi, John," he trotted after the man as he and Sherlock walked away from the crime scene, hoping to get at least some information out of the man, "Can I talk to you-" He didn't get to finish his sentence, as he tripped over a rock and fell, (he seemed to be doing a lot of tripping lately) his arms flailing wildly in an attempt to catch himself, which he later assumed must have been quite comical for the passersby watching. Before he could hit the ground, however, a pair of strong arms encircled his waist and caught him.

  "What th-" he turned his head up, and found himself face-to-face with none other than Mycroft Holmes. "Going somewhere, Inspector?" the ginger murmured, raising that goddamned eyebrow in the smug way that so suited him. "I....uh...yeah, I..." Lestrade shook his head, trying to find the right words, but it was no use.

  Mycroft was so close, and his scent, expensive cologne and what he presumed to be just-as-expensive tea, was absolutely intoxicating. Greg could feel the man's sinewy arm muscles even underneath the thick wool coat, and he made a mental note to never listen to Sherlock when he talked about Mycroft's physique again.

  Mycroft cleared his throat, and Lestrade's eyes widened. _"Say something, you idiot."_ he thought to himself. "Uh...thanks, Mr. Holmes." he managed weakly, feeling his heart begin to race a bit faster as the other man didn't break eye contact with him. Mycroft swallowed, then gave him an almost imperceptible nod and helped him right his position. The taller man stood back, not a hair out of place on him (the perfect bastard).

  "Do be more careful next time, Inspector." he chuckled, "And please, for the sake of saving us both a lot of time, call me Mycroft.""I...uh...sure, Mycroft." Greg inwardly kicked himself for how stupid he sounded; his voice was wavering slightly, not enough that any normal bloke would notice it, but this was Mycroft Holmes he was talking about, for fuck's sake. "I ah...thanks." he muttered, reaching into his pocket for his packet of cigarettes, and finding that they weren't there. He glanced around, thinking they had fallen on the ground during his rather ungraceful fall, but a flash of white caught his eye. Mycroft was pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Greg's cigarettes. "Looking for these?" he asked, flipping the pack over in his hand. "Shouldn't be smoking these, you know. It isn't good for your health."

  "How did you...?" Lestrade cut himself off and nodded, taking the pack from the other man's hand; Mycroft was a Holmes, after all, and Sherlock's older brother to boot. He had to assume the man had some hidden talents, though pickpocketing hadn't been very high on his list of Possible Talents Mycroft Holmes May Have. That list was growing by the moment, actually. Not that he spent _that_ much time thinking about Mycroft...

  "Thanks." he repeated, turning on his heel and walking away. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag. "Well, fuck," he said out loud as soon as he was out of the ginger's earshot. It appeared that his interest in Mycroft Holmes wasn't going away anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I realize that it isn't technically 'cuddling' but bear with me, the plot will make sense soon.


	3. Day Three: Gaming/watching a movie

Mycroft sat back in his uncomfortable hospital chair and rubbed his eyes; he had been sitting in this goddamned waiting room for nearly four hours. Sherlock, the complete idiot, had gotten himself stabbed while undercover on a case, and was now in emergency surgery to correct the massive internal bleeding caused by a ruptured spleen. Mycroft had been, admittedly, frightened when he got the call, but now he was much calmer, as the doctors that were working on his younger brother were the best in their fields. He had made sure of that.

The ginger stretched out his long legs and let out a soft sigh as the kinks in his back were relieved, swallowing and reaching for the bottle of mineral water he always kept on hand to keep himself from dehydration (as dehydration resulted in migraines, which he had quite often anyway, and he preferred to avoid as much as possible). He sipped at the liquid and glanced up at the telly in the left-hand corner; it was playing some dreadful romantic comedy, and he rolled his eyes. He hated movies in general (he preferred documentaries and the like), but rom-coms were on his top ten list of Things He Would Wipe From The Earth If He Had The Power. But, having nothing else to do in the horribly boring waiting room other than deduce things about the other families (done within the first ten minutes of arrival) and sleeping (which was completely unacceptable, Mycroft Holmes did not sleep in hospital chairs), he quickly deduced exactly what the plot of the film was, did an in-depth analysis of the characters' personalities, and was about to start doing an internal dialogue of things he knew the stereotypical characters were going to say, when a grey-haired man rounded the corner and appeared in front of him.

Mycroft looked up, a faint smile gracing his lips at the sight of the Detective Inspector. "Inspector Lestrade," he murmured, "How...nice it is to see you again. I assume you wish to know the details of Sherlock's condition?" The other man nodded anxiously, then shoved his hands in his pockets, biting his lip nervously and looking around the room, trying to find something to distract himself. Mycroft quickly took in everything he could about the DI, trying to deduce his emotions so he could act accordingly. 

Rumpled shirt, probably hastily thrown on as he was on the phone with John. Unshaven, not showered, he left his flat in a rush. A large coffee, presumably black, which meant he was exhausted and hadn't slept much, because no one drinks black coffee for the taste. Obviously nervous and anxious, as shown by the slight twitching in his left hand and his almost hyperactive demeanor. Puffy eyes, which meant he had either not had enough sleep or been teary (Mycroft guessed a bit of both), and unmatched socks, the government official noted with distaste. Every mark of a worried, anxious man.

He glanced back up at the DI and tried to manage a warm smile, though he figured it probably made him look more creepy than comforting, as he didn't smile very often. He smirked, yes, constantly; but never really smiled. "Have a seat?" he said, gesturing to the only available chair, next to himself. Greg nodded and sat down next to the ginger, fidgeting anxiously in his chair. Mycroft gave him the details on Sherlock's condition, which looked promising, but he wasn't out of the woods yet.

Greg sank back against his chair and sighed with apparent relief upon hearing that Sherlock was relatively alright. "Thank god," he murmured, massaging his temples, trying to ward off an oncoming headache, Mycroft assumed, a gesture he himself had used all too often. He glanced back at the DI; he didn't seem as nervous as he usually did around the government official, though that could be attributed to the obvious stress the man was feeling as a result of Sherlock being stabbed. He pursed his lips, then glanced back at the telly, an idea forming in his mind. He cleared his throat, and Gregory turned to look at him, a quizzical expression on his face.

Mycroft nodded toward the blonde woman that was currently standing in the middle of a scene on the television screen. "Stereotypical main female character. Beautiful, thin, but low self-confidence; these characters actually promote sexism, if you can believe that. Thinks that finding a partner is the most important thing in life. Enlists the help of her (male) best mate to help her find 'Mr. Right', not knowing that he is, in fact, thoroughly enamored with her." Greg raised his eyebrows, chuckling. "I always wondered how you Holmeses did it. I'm not sure I want to know..." he replied, glancing up at the screen just in time to cringe at the blonde woman's pathetic attempts to snag herself a 'prettyboy', as the movie terminology called him. Mycroft smirked and began to run a quiet dialogue, predicting the near-exact lines of every character; the telly was on mute, but Greg could practically feel himself immersed in the terrible storyline, if only because Mycroft Holmes was telling it to him.

As the end credits rolled, a doctor stepped into the waiting room, a smidge of blood still on his OR apron. "He'll be fine, Mr. Holmes. He needs to take it easy for several weeks, not stress himself. The man who attacked him didn't hit any vital organs, thankfully." he said, reaching up to tug down his medical mask. Mycroft stood up, subtly stretching his legs, and nodded. "Thank you, doctor," he replied, his grey eyes the only things that betrayed any emotion; relief, annoyance, and exhaustion were the most prevalent ones. Greg sighed with relief, then stood up again, a twinge in his neck making him wince. He had been sitting in that same position for far too long. Damn Mycroft and his ability to distract Greg from his troubles, even while dealing with troubles of his own. 

After a quick visit to the Consulting Patient's room, the two men stepped outside, and Mycroft rang for his driver. "Do you need a ride, Inspector? You took a taxi here, and there probably won't be any more cab drivers for at least another two hours." Greg glanced up at Mycroft, feeling the familiar fluttering in his chest again. He managed to shove it down and nodded gratefully, reaching up to rub the back of his neck in what Mycroft could tell was a much-used gesture. Mycroft nodded back, then shut off and pocketed his phone. The two men stood in silence for a long minute, their breathing making small puffs in the frigid night air. Without turning his head, Mycroft spoke.

"Would you like to go out to dinner, Detective Inspector?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah yeah, I know it's a little early, but I got bored. Don't hurt me.


	4. Day Four: On A Date

After Mycroft's proposition of dinner (which Greg had managed to accept without spluttering, for once; it wasn't a date, after all, just celebrating Sherlock's not-dying), the government official had ordered his driver to take them to one of his favourite restaurants. It was a small, high-end restaurant with sky-high prices and small portions, the exact type of restaurant one would expect Mycroft to enjoy, posh man that he was.

The ride there was oddly silent, with a few blurbs of conversation materialising during traffic or when one of them felt inclined to discuss Sherlock's condition. Greg spent most of the drive staring out the window, trying to keep himself from saying something stupid. He remembered his mother's old trick, which she had told him many times.

_"Say the fourth thing that comes to your mind, Gregory. Not the first, not the seventh, the fourth. The Lestrade men aren't exactly revered for their charm, and I won't have you making an idiot of yourself. Helen Lestrade does not raise idiot sons."_

Greg smiled slightly; good old mum, always had something useful (or insulting, but justly so) to say about the Lestrade men. It had driven his father mad, when he was alive, but it had been quite funny. He really should give mum a call...

The car suddenly jerked to a stop, and he nearly smacked his face on the seat in front of him as he was jolted from his pleasant memory. Mycroft did actually hit the seat in front of him, and exclaimed something in another language, most likely some form of a high-end swear word (did those even exist?). The driver responded quickly in the same language, as far as Greg could tell, in an apologetic tone. Mycroft sat back, readjusted his jacket, sniffed and brushed a curl away from his forehead. Greg stared in awe at the small strand of hair as it fell back into its former position, forming what looked very much like a comma right in the middle of the government official's head; it almost made him look like a cherub. Well, a cross between a cherub and a demon, what with those cheeks and that nose. He inwardly cringed at his terminology, and made a mental note to not forget his mother's advice, especially since he had already made an idiot of himself in front of Mycroft more than once. No use embarrassing himself any further in front of the man.

***

He glanced down at his menu, biting his lip; he could feel the other patrons' eyes on him. He didn't exactly blame them for staring; he was, after all, clad in a wrinkled jacket and a slightly beat-up (but still collared, thank god) shirt. He had on proper trousers, at least, he thought to himself.

He cleared his throat quietly and looked up at Mycroft, trying to read his expression. But Mycroft, as usual, was carefully expressionless, having already decided what he was going to order, and was now looking at the wine list. "Nice place," he muttered, turning his head slightly to look at the chandelier above their heads. "Bit...intimate, don't you think? Well, not _intimate_ intimate, but..." "Dates usually are meant to be intimate, yes," Mycroft replied, tone completely casual, his eyes not leaving the list clutched in his long, delicate fingers. 

Greg took a sip of his water as Mycroft spoke, and let out a most inelegant choking sound when the other man had finished his sentence; a date. This was a date. Mycroft Holmes had taken him on a date (admittedly without telling him that this was, in fact, a date, but still). "I...what?!" he coughed, cringing as one of the patrons at another table began to snicker. Mycroft looked up at him over his reading glasses and quirked his eyebrow in the way that Greg had come to know very well over the past few weeks. "Date. Noun. To bring someone whom you desire into an intimate setting in hopes of continuing a romantic and/or sexual relationship, depending on how said meeting goes. Date." He sounded like a kid at a spelling bee, Greg thought.

After another minute or so of coughing, he was finally able to speak. "So this," he gestured between himself and Mycroft, "This is a...a date?" Mycroft struggled to keep from rolling his eyes, and just nodded politely. "Yes. This is, in fact, a date." he replied, setting down the wine list steepling his fingers under his chin in a way that reminded Greg a little bit of Sherlock. The consulting detective probably learned that behaviour from Mycroft, he realized. He mentally scolded himself; he was on a date with Mycroft Holmes, and he was thinking about Sherlock. Good god, how glad he was that Mycroft couldn't read his thoughts.

"He did learn this from me, by the way, though he refuses to acknowledge it. One of the many details he has deleted about his childhood." Mycroft murmured, raising his eyebrow a smidge higher.

Greg sat back in his chair, completely stunned, his mouth half-open; he had heard jokes about Mycroft being able to read minds, but _damn_... "How did you...wow." he breathed, rather impressed by Mycroft's deductive skills. Mycroft looked him over once or twice, and was about to say something, but a server showed up to take their order. Mycroft quickly switched his attention to the other man, ordering what sounded like an expensive bottle of wine along with their meal, but Greg didn't know; he didn't usually drink for taste, that was for sure.

They sat in silence until the server brought their meals, which Greg was mildly impressed with; they weren't what he was used to, but they weren't bad. He picked at his steak, glancing up at Mycroft when he thought the other man wasn't looking. But of course, Mycroft knew. Without looking up, he spoke. "Are you completely, as the term goes, 'freaked out' by this, or has this been an enjoyable experience so far?" Greg swallowed, and remembered his mother's advice.

"It's...unexpected," he admitted, relaxing a little, "But...no, not unpleasant." Mycroft lifted his gaze to meet Greg's eyes, and the DI's throat tightened at the sight of the brilliant grey irises. He reached for his wine glass and spoke again. "It's...nice, actually. I've been waiting-" he didn't get the chance to finish, as he accidentally bumped his glass with the back of his hand, spilling it both over the tablecloth and all over Mycroft's suit. He gasped and sat back, bringing his hand to his mouth. Mycroft looked up at him in shock, his expensive vest now splattered with the red wine that Greg figured probably cost more per glass than the total price of every bottle of alcohol in his flat.

"Oh, my god...I'm so sorry," he sputtered, covering his face with his hands. His mother's voice rang clear in his ears again. 

_"And for god's sake, look where you're reaching. You Lestrade boys are such klutzes."_

He groaned and peeked over his hand at Mycroft. The ginger was dabbing at his vest with a cloth napkin, the corners of his mouth twitching. Greg slowly lowered his hands and stared at him in shock; Mycroft was _laughing_. He didn't think the man was capable of laughter. Well..of course he was _capable_ , but... "You're laughing." he stated as Mycroft's grin began to widen. 

_"Great job, Captain Obvious."_ he scolded himself. 

"I...I'm sorry," Mycroft chuckled, his chest beginning to heave, "It's just...I'm sorry, I have no idea why I'm laughing." Mycroft's nervous laughter was infectious, and Greg began to chuckle along with him. "It's just so damn awkward," he laughed, trying to keep his voice down. "It's...christ, Mycroft..I'm sorry about your suit." "Think nothing of it, please." Mycroft replied, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, the impish grin never leaving his lips. Greg inwardly sighed with relief, but outwardly was still giggling like an over-caffeinated child. Mycroft's snickering got a bit louder, and he bit his lip in an effort to keep himself quiet.

After a few minutes, their laughter died down, and Mycroft dabbed at his eyes. "I do apologise for the awkwardness of this situation," he sighed, "I should have informed you of my plan, but I haven't been on a date in years, certainly not with someone I..." Mycroft trailed off, dropping his eyes to his hands as if they were suddenly the most interesting things in the world.

Greg's eyes widened; Mycroft Holmes, also known as _the_ British Government, older brother to the Consulting Prick/Genius/Detective, was _shy_. Because of him. That familiar fluttering feeling in his stomach returned, and he reached across the table to take Mycroft's delicate hand in his own, running his fingers over the other's wrist.

"You have no idea how crazy I have been acting because of you," he shook his head, grinning, "I kept making a complete arse out of myself around you because I was so nervous. You...damn, Mycroft, you've turned me into a swooning schoolgirl, for chrissakes!" Mycroft looked up at him, shock evident in his pale grey eyes. "Really?" he raised one eyebrow again, and Greg groaned, sitting back in his chair, though not letting go of the other's hand. "Yes, really. Now what are we going to do about your suit...and the tablecloth..." Greg scrubbed a hand over his stubbled cheek, then ran his fingers through his hair, no longer caring how messy it looked. "I'll take care of it," Mycroft replied, turning his hand over so he could grip Gregory's fingers in his own.

"No way, Mycroft," the silver-haired man replied, "I'm the klutz who did this, I'll take care of it." 

"Gregory, I can assure you, it is my pleasure, I really don't..."

"No. I spilled, I'll pay. It's the least I can do after ruining your clothes. That suit probably cost more than my month's rent..."

"Probably."

Greg lifted his head and tried to glare at Mycroft, but found it completely impossible, as the man was smiling at him; not the famous Holmes smirk, but a genuine smile. He couldn't help but smile back. "Alright, alright," he caved, waving his hand in the air as he stood up, "But I pay next time, deal?" Mycroft rolled his eyes, then nodded, inwardly very pleased at the promising term 'next time'. "I'll have my driver pull around, and I'll see that you get home."

"It really isn't all that far, I could walk-" 

"Gregory. Please."

"..fine." Greg rolled his eyes and shook his head as Mycroft smirked at him. "Outside, ten feet from the door, get in the car and wait for me, if you would." Greg nodded, and made his way outside.


	5. Day Five: Kissing

Greg managed to both have a cigarette and a chat with Mycroft's driver, who actually turned out to be a nice guy; he was just nervous around Mycroft, which was understandable.

"The man's like a walking test of your nerves, I swear..." Greg chuckled, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

"Glad I have such a powerful influence on you. I shall be sure to use this to my advantage in the future." came a voice from behind them.

Greg turned and, seeing Mycroft, blushed. Mycroft smirked and muttered something to the driver, who nodded and got into the driver's seat, then turning the key in the ignition.

Mycroft, in an uncharacteristically kind move, opened Greg's door for him, and gestured inside. The DI grinned at Mycroft and did as he was directed, moving over so Mycroft could get in as well. The government official said something else to his driver, and the man nodded, beginning the short drive back to Gregory's flat.

***

"I trust you had a nice time?" Mycroft asked as they walked up to the door, twirling his umbrella (which was actually something he did when he was nervous, believe it or not).

Greg nodded, smiling, and turned towards the ginger. "I did. Again, I'm really sorry about your suit. My mother always said we Lestrade men were clumsy. Well, she had a lot of things to say about the Lestrade men, that being the least offensive." he snickered. Mycroft chuckled, almost wishing he could say the same of his mother. Almost.

The DI reached up to rub the back of his neck, the nervousness radiating from him. "So ah... This was nice, other than Sherlock getting stabbed, and the suit thing..." he trailed off, glancing up at the government official. "Maybe 'nice' wasn't the right word to use..." Mycroft shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 

"I found nothing odd about this, honestly. Much less awkward than some of my previous dates."

"Wait, seriously? How could any of your dates possibly have been any more awkward than this one was?!"

"Well, for one, one of my dates tried to steal my wallet."

Greg tried his damndest not to laugh, but didn't succeed. 

"You're kidding me. Oh my god."

"Then there was the one who quite literally thought she was the Queen. That was an awkward trip to the mental health facility, let me tell you..." Mycroft cleared his throat and smirked. "I think I take the cake (pardon the expression) for having The Most Awkward Dates in History."

"No shit." Greg laughed, feeling the nervousness subside, then return full-force. He suddenly got very quiet, and avoided Mycroft's eyes. What was he supposed to do now? Normally, he would have his dates pressed up against a wall, and would be snogging them senseless. But Mycroft didn't seem like the typical candidate for that sort of thing, so Greg was completely clueless.

The government official, sensing the other man's nervousness, pursed his lips, then spoke.

"I believe that there is a customary action often done after a first date, if one wishes to continue on to a second date." he murmured, taking a small step forward and placing his hand on Greg's cheek.

The DI's eyes widened. "I...you want to...you know..."

"Inspector?"

"Yes?"

"Do shut up."

Mycroft leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Greg's mouth. The silver-haired man closed his eyes and savoured the kiss, turning his head ever so slightly to make it a more proper kiss. Bad move, as his jaw smacked against Mycroft's chin with a loud thunk.

The ginger pulled back, a look of shock and slight discomfort on his face as he gripped his chin. Greg stared back at him, his jaw throbbing, and struggled to find the right words. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, let out a breathy laugh, the nervousness in his chest releasing itself. Mycroft stared back at him, trying to analyze his emotional state. 

Greg rolled his eyes and stepped forward, placing both his hands on either side of Mycroft's neck and pulling him in for a proper kiss. He ran his tongue along the other man's bottom lip, eliciting a gasp (yes, a gasp) from Mycroft. He pressed the tip of his tongue between Mycroft's lips, begging for entrance. Mycroft obliged him, opening his mouth slightly to let the silver-haired detective inspector explore his mouth. Deep down, he could still hear his mother scolding him for being 'common' and snogging someone (a man, no less) in the middle of a sidewalk.

After several long minutes of kissing, the DI pulled away, opening his eyes and breathing heavily. Mycroft's eyes were still closed, and he reached up to play with the stray curl that had found its way onto Mycroft's forehead.

"So...second date?"


	6. Day Six: Wearing Each Others' Clothes

"Oi, sleeping beauty, wake up."

Greg nudged Mycroft in the side, and the same rolled over and muttered something that sounded very much like the colourful language Greg consistently used. The DI laughed and poked Mycroft's side again. "C'mon, it's almost 5am. Don't want you to be late for all those delegates."

"Those delegates are older than dirt, rocks, and most of the planets. I doubt they even remember what they had for breakfast, much less if they have a meeting with me." Mycroft grumbled, tugging the blanket over his head.

Greg smirked. This had been their first time actually sleeping together, and he had to admit, all the awkwardness and anxiety of their previous encounters had all been worth it. He had discovered so many things about the government official that he doubted anyone else had ever figured out, and that gave him a sense of security and warmth, knowing that Mycroft could become vulnerable (something he absolutely hated to do) for him.

"Come on, get up." he playfully shoved Mycroft, who retorted by kicking the DI in the shin. "Let me sleep." he muttered, curling up on his side, his ginger curls falling into his face. Greg smiled at the sight of him; it wasn't often that he got to see Mycroft without his posh suits and perfectly styled hair. "What, did I tire you out?" he smirked. "Get up, Freckles," he murmured, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist and rubbing their cheeks together. Freckles was the affectionate nickname Greg had given Mycroft after seeing his freckles for the first time (he often kept them covered up with concealer or some other form of expensive makeup, the name of which Greg couldn't pronounce).

"Stop calling me that." Mycroft muttered, delivering another kick to the DI's shin. "I hate my freckles."

"Nope." Greg replied, tugging the pillow out from under Mycroft's head. "And they're bloody cute, so shut up."

Mycroft sat up and glared at the other man, though it was difficult to take him seriously, as his hair was sticking up in every direction. The silver-haired man stifled a giggle, and reached out to tousle the messy curls. "You're so cute. Get up." he snickered. Mycroft huffed, "I am not 'cute'. I am dangerous and manipulative and all who come across me who have reasonable intelligence fear me." "Of course, of course. Cute." Greg teased, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smirk.

Mycroft reached out and flicked the DI's ear, eliciting a slightly pained noise from him, then turned to get out of bed, hissing as his feet hit the cold floor. "You really should invest in a better heating system." he said disapprovingly. "Your flat is always freezing."

"Funny, I seem to remember that you found the floor quite comfortable last night." Greg teased, rubbing at his ear. Mycroft blushed involuntarily and distracted himself by scanning the room for his clothes. He spotted Greg's button-down shirt slung over a lamp, and remembered that he had left most of his own clothes in the sitting room the night before. He did recall that his pants were somewhere around in the room, but he was too groggy and annoyed to bother looking for them. He sighed and stretched, his long arms nearly touching the ceiling of Greg's bedroom. Greg sat back, arms folded behind his head, and enjoyed the view of Mycroft's arse, perfectly exposed. 

"You're staring." the ginger said, turning his head and raising one eyebrow.

"Am I? Hadn't noticed." Greg replied, reaching out to deliver a soft swat to Mycroft's backside. "You have carpet burns on your arse."

Mycroft let out a chuckle and shook his head. "Your fault, I seem to recall." 

The DI smirked and sat back, fondly remembering the way Mycroft had been so thoroughly debauched the night before. "I regret absolutely nothing. Seeing you squirm like that, and fuck, the _screaming_..." Greg licked his lips and struggled to keep his thoughts clean, though it was difficult when he was imagining Mycroft under him, moaning, writhing, squealing...

_"Stop it!"_ he scolded himself. They didn't have time for that sort of thing, not now...

Mycroft gave Greg a coy smile as he tugged on the button-down shirt, which fit him, surprisingly, but wasn't long enough to cover his exposed genitals. He cupped himself in mock shyness and chuckled.

"Well, don't get yourself too worked up. You _are_ the one who insisted I get up, but it appears it is I who has gotten you 'up'."

Greg rolled his eyes at the terrible pun, reaching down to snatch up a pair of pants on the floor, which turned out to be Mycroft's, but he didn't particularly care. "You are not funny at all, you know that? Not at all." he muttered as he pulled on the pants and yawned.

"I am funny, actually. You just don't understand the underlying humour behind my jokes."

"You make jokes about the Swedish government."

"And if you understood anything about Swedish politics, you would laugh hysterically every time. Your sense of humour isn't as developed as mine, unfortunately."

"You giggle when I make 'that's what she said' jokes. Your sense of humour is not more developed than mine."

"First of all, I do not 'giggle'. Giggling is for schoolgirls and twelve-year-old boys. I laugh, I do not giggle. And second of all, I do not laugh nor giggle at your immature jokes. I really don't see the point behind making 'that's what she said' jokes, as they're quite easy to grasp."

"That's what she said."

Mycroft tried to stifle a laugh, but it came out as a loud snort. "I can't believe you." he rolled his eyes. "Those are the lowest form of all the jokes, and yes, I am including jokes of a sexual nature."

"Sex jokes. The term you are thinking of is sex jokes."

"I am aware. Perhaps I just have more class than you, as I'm trying not to mention things of a sexual nature in your presence, out of politeness."

"Politeness, seriously? I'm not the one who was screaming 'Harder, Gregory, _harder_!' last night." Greg retorted, taking immense pleasure in the blush that rose on Mycroft's cheeks.

"You can hardly blame me, you know. Honestly, I thought you were going to split me in half with that thing." Mycroft gestured vaguely to Greg's crotch.

The DI smirked. "You know you love it."

"Admittedly, yes, I do." Mycroft replied, smirking back at the other man. "Breakfast?"

"Sure."


	7. Day Seven: Cosplaying

"This is stupid," Mycroft hissed, "People are staring."

"Well you're the one who made the fucking bet with your idiot brother over lunch yesterday, and we lost. So stop complaining."

Mycroft cringed at the memory. It had been his and Gregory's first night out as a couple with Sherlock and John (it was their two-month anniversary, after all), almost like a double-date. Only it had gone horribly wrong after both the Holmes boys had ingested a bit of alcohol and made a bet on who could deduce a stranger's entire life faster. Mycroft, having drunk a fair bit more than Sherlock, lost.

"I made that bet in the confidence that I would win. I don't make bets to lose, you know."

"Yeah? I honestly couldn't tell, with the way this situation turned out."

"You really don't know when to keep quiet, do you?"

"Says the man who bet his brother that he could deduce a stranger's life faster, and LOST."

"Shh, keep your bloody voice down! Do you really think that drawing more attention to ourselves is the answer?"

"It isn't really that bad, we sort of just look like we're in different dress."

"My hair has been dyed _orange_."

"Okay, okay, Jesus. But it's your own damn fault."

"Oh shut up. You don't look so great yourself, you know."

"Don't you think I know that? I'll be the brunt of every midlife crisis joke in the office now thanks to you."

"It's true, black hair does not suit you. At all. I much prefer the silver."

"Well I prefer you with your regular hair, and clothes, and _lack of lipstick_."

"He insisted that the costumes be authentic. And since I was absolutely not going to get breast implants to make up for my lack of female anatomy, the makeup was insisted upon."

"Well, you look stupid."

"Coming from the man who has black hair and grey eyebrows."

"Shut up. How much longer until we can take these stupid things off?"

"Two more hours. Hold up, I need to reapply my lipstick."

"Oh my fucking _God_ , are you serious?!"

"Am I not allowed to want to look nice? My apologies."

"You're dressed as fucking Agent Scully as a result of a stupid bet made with your idiot brother, and you think this is an appropriate time to lecture me?"

"Well, you make a ridiculous-looking Mulder, honestly. And put the glasses back on, they help hide those horrid eyebrows."

"You really don't know when to stop, do you. I can't believe you could be so-"

"Well, if it isn't the world's favourite investigators of the X-Files." came a voice from behind them. The embarrassed DI and government official turned around, seeing that John and Sherlock evidently found their distress quite amusing, and were snapping shots with their cell phones.

Mycroft all but snarled and tried to reach out to smack Sherlock, but the consulting detective jumped away at the last second with a laugh. "I hate you." the ginger muttered, turning on his heel and stalking away. Greg followed close behind, turning his head one last time to glare at Sherlock and John, who were in utter hysterics.

"I hate him so much." Mycroft muttered, tugging off the uncomfortable costume jacket. 

"Believe me, I'm not to fond of the bastard myself." Greg replied bitterly, running his fingers through his now-blackened hair. He pulled his hand away and grimaced when he found that it was covered in black.

"Ugh."

"I'll get back at him; I will have my revenge."

"Mycroft, shut up. You sound like a mad scientist."

"You sound like a mad scientist."

"Mature."

"Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's all dialogue, I couldn't do this any other way. >.>


	8. Day 8: Shopping

"I feel ridiculous."

The DI was standing in front of a full-length mirror in a shop filled with expensive clothing, shoes, and ties that looked like they probably cost more than his entire outfit. "You look fine." Mycroft reassured, stepping to the side and admiring the black suit and dark grey tie that complimented the DI's silver hair. "You do look quite nice, you know. And you need this for the ambassador's welcoming ball." 

"The thing isn't for another four damn months!" the other man grumbled, tugging off the uncomfortable tie and tossing it to the saleswoman behind him. She glanced up at Mycroft, who nodded at he, and she smiled, setting the tie down next to the rest of the clothes Mycroft was purchasing that day.

He was a regular at this shop, and every salesperson liked to get him. After all, he was quiet (though he gave underhanded compliments and advice) and was a rather generous tipper. That last part was the main reason they liked him, he suspected. But he got good service, and they did put up with him demanding suits be tailored to fit his increasingly frequent weight fluctuations. At the thought of this, he placed a hand on his stomach, feeling a bit self-conscious; Sherlock had made a few biting remarks about his weight earlier, and though he knew the brunette was completely wrong, it still made him feel inadequate.

"I don't see why I have to go in the first place, you know. No offense, but it's stuffy, and boring, and I can't even fake politeness with these people. I'm afraid to do anything for fear of offending some delegate from a country I can't even pronounce."

"Which is why a) you should have paid attention in your history classes, and b) I need to teach you these things. It isn't hard, I promise. We'll break it up into small study sessions so as not to overwhelm your mind."

"I am _not_ having 'study sessions', Mycroft. I did my time in school, I'm finished with that. And what do you mean, 'so as not to overwhelm my mind'? You make it sound like I'm stupid or something."

"Well..." Mycroft murmured, tilting his head.

Gregory turned his head to glare at the ginger, raising his eyebrow in a perfect mimicry of the other man. Their relationship had progressed from utterly awkward to completely comfortable in the span of a few months, and Mycroft was considering asking the DI to move in with him. Then again, the man did have some excruciatingly irritating habits, but Mycroft was slowly training that out of him. He smirked to himself as he recalled the way he had manipulated the DI's behaviour to his liking. Greg no longer left his clothes on the floor, didn't squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube, and didn't put his drinks down on Mycroft's expensive imported coffee table without a coaster. The government official was quite proud of himself for having used a little positive reinforcement technique on the DI, though he felt a little guilty about using his superior intelligence to get the upper hand on his lover.

"You're not stupid, love. These things are quite complicated."

"Never did understand why you needed fourteen bloody forks on the table anyway." the DI muttered, "No point to it all, really."

Mycroft had to swallow a response, forcing himself to remember that Gregory hadn't been as blessed in the etiquette department as he had been. He had been trained, taken lessons; Gregory hadn't.

"Well, perhaps we can find another fun way to learn these things." Mycroft muttered, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Greg nearly choked on his own saliva at the sight of Mycroft's expression.

"How much longer do we have to be here?" he murmured, stepping toward his lover and running a hand down his chest, "Because I'd like to go home."

"Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"Try on one more suit, and we'll go."

"..."

Mycroft's voice dropped to a whisper. "One more suit, and I'll let you play with the handcuffs."

"Deal."


	9. Day Nine: Hanging Out With Friends

"You're sure we have to do this?" Mycroft muttered, squeezing his lover's hand as they approached the table.

"Yes, and it won't be that bad. Just try to relax and have fun."

"I will not be able to relax as long as my brother is around."

"Mycroft, I promise, if he makes a wisecrack, I'll give him a good kick under the table."

"...fine. But if this goes wrong, I blame you."

"Mycroft, Sherlock and John are getting married. You don't think we can at least treat them to a little congratulations dinner?"

"Hmph. My brother, married. Willingly, no less. What sort of parallel universe is this?"

"One where Sherlock is actually happy, and not a massive pain in the arse."

"He's always a pain in the arse, but less so now."

"Sometimes."

Mycroft smirked. "Knew it."

"Oh shut up," Greg rolled his eyes and lifted his hand in a wave as he spotted John and Sherlock. His smirk turned to a grimace as he noticed Sherlock in the corner, sulking. 

"Oh, god, what is it this time." Mycroft muttered, plastering on the fake smile that he was famous for in the political world. He could look both sincere and condescending with one twitch of his lips. Greg had been on the receiving end of that smile more than once, and it was not something he wanted to do again. He loved Mycroft with all of his heart, but damn if Mycroft didn't try his hardest to do little things that would piss Greg off. The ginger had mentioned once that it was healthier for couples to have lots of little squabbles, so as not to build up their anger so much that a large fight would turn into a divorce. Greg had agreed with his logic, but it was still frustrating.

"John, Sherlock," the DI nodded at the two men, sliding into the corner of the booth, Mycroft following suit. "Brother. Doctor Watson," Mycroft said with as much politeness as he could muster.

"Hey you two. Sorry about Sulklock Holmes over there, but I tore him away from his mould cataloguing to bring him here." John reached over and tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, whispering something to him. The consulting detective let out an exasperated sigh and unfolded his arms, resting his hands in his lap.

Both Mycroft and Greg did a double-take; Sherlock had actually listened to someone. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, smirking. "You two seem practically married already," he murmured, beckoning one of the waitresses over so he could order a glass of wine.

"So, when are you guys thinking of actually tying the knot?"

"It's irrelevant when, it's just a legal contract--ow!" Sherlock cut himself off when John gave him a kick in the shin. He frowned and sat back, glaring at his fiancee. John paid no attention to the sulking brunette, and spoke.

"We were thinking maybe late April, early May. Something about a spring wedding just seems nice, y'know?"

"Absolutely, yeah," the silver-haired man replied, "Just make sure to book everything a year in advance. My ex gave me hell when we couldn't have the wedding in the reception hall she wanted."

"Bad omen, much?" the blonde cracked. Greg laughed, then shook his head. "She was really something else, bloody crazy. I remember she-"

"Bored." Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms again.

John turned his head to glare at his partner. "Sherlock, stop that."

"I'm bored, John."

"I don't care if you're bored, you promised me you'd at least try."

"I did try. I'm still bored."

"Then have a conversation with your brother, he's sitting right across from you. Christ, Sherlock, we talked about this."

Sherlock snorted. "My brother is uninteresting," he gestured at the ginger, "But, I'll give it a go anyway, if you'll stop pestering me. So, Mycroft," Sherlock turned to face his brother, an evil smirk on his lips, "How's the diet?"

Mycroft tried his damndest not to sneer. "Fine, actually." he decided the best course of action was to ignore Sherlock's jabs. It had become easier, since Greg had come around, to ignore the quips about his weight and appearance. His self-confidence had improved a hundredfold since he begun dating the DI.

"Doesn't look like it. You sure he hasn't been cheating, Lestrade?" Sherlock smirked, taking a sip of his ice water.

The DI glared at the consulting detective, but didn't say anything. "I've stuck with it remarkably well; Gregory is very good about not letting me near too many tempting sweets." Mycroft said, his voice taking on that smarmy tone that he knew drove his brother mad.

Sherlock scoffed, then turned away and began to sulk again, frustrated at the lack of reaction he was getting out of his brother. Mycroft smiled as he sipped his wine; he had won this round.

"So you two were thinking spring, yes?" Mycroft attempted to revive their previous conversation, much to John and Greg's relief.

"Well, yeah. Spring weddings are lovely, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know," Mycroft chuckled, "But rest assured that with my influence, I can get you any location you wish for the ceremony and reception. Is this a civil or religious ceremony?"

"Civil. If there is a god, he's laughing at me for finding this one," John reached over and stroked Sherlock's cheek, attempting to get him to stop sulking. The curly-haired brunette scowled, then relaxed, unfolding his arms. Mycroft was incredulous; John was able to bring Sherlock out of one of his famous 'moods' with a simple touch on the cheek. 

"You two are...You make a very good pair." the ginger murmured, genuinely impressed. He raised his wine glass and smiled at John. "To your engagement?"

"Our engagement." John chuckled, clinking his water glass against Mycroft's wine glass.

Sherlock sighed and fidgeted in his seat. "John..."

John gave Sherlock a look, then sighed, defeated. "You did well, Sherlock. I'm proud of you, yeah? You can go."

Sherlock's face broke into an excited grin, and he quickly shoved John out of the booth so he could get out. The consulting detective darted off, but not without giving the others a wave.

Mycroft quirked his eyebrow in surprise at Sherlock's small gesture. "You've really changed him, Doctor Watson," he murmured, impressed. 

"Nah, I just ironed out the kinks."

"Or you didn't." Greg cracked.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes.

"You have no class, you know that?"

"C'mon, us common people aren't that bad," John snickered, "Maybe he'll finally teach you how to swear properly."

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. "I know how to swear. I just have too much class to do it."

"Mycroft, you can't swear. Just admit it."

"I can."

"You can't."

"Gregory, do be a dear and fuck off."


	10. Day Ten: With Animal Ears

"I refuse to do this."

"Mycroft, it's Halloween, come on."

"I hate Halloween. It's a stupid holiday."

"It's not, and you look cute."

"I am the British government. I am not cute, I am feared, respected."

"And cute."

"Do shut up. And take back these god-awful costumes."

"Mycroft, it's not even a costume, come on. Just a little makeup on your nose and we'll call it even."

"No. It's ridiculous."

Greg sighed and donned the silver headband in his hand, small ears sticking straight up. "Come on, Mycroft, please?" he begged, holding out the black headband, "It'll be nice. It'll give us something to have fun with at that stupid Yard party I'm being forced to attend."

"You don't _have_ to attend, you know."

"I do, for the morale of the force."

"Well, I don't. And I'm not wearing those ridiculous ears. I'll look silly."

"You'd be the only one out of costume, and that _would_ be silly."

"I don't want to go."

"You're pouting."

"So?"

Greg threw his hands up, exasperated. "Fine. You don't want to wear the damn ears, fine."

"Don't be a child."

"Mycroft, why can't you just be fun for once?"

Mycroft reeled back as if he'd been slapped. "I'm fun." he bit back, "Your idea of fun is just very different from mine."

"Yeah. Mine is actual fun, yours is posh fun."

Mycroft sneered and turned away, rolling his eyes. "This further proves my point that you are a child in a forty-six year old's body."

"I'm forty-eight, but good try."

"You're forty-six..." Mycroft furrowed his brow, trying to remember his lover's actual age.

"Nope, forty-eight. I lied on my application to become detective inspector. Two years can make a big difference."

Mycroft shook his head, then rolled his eyes again. "I'm still not wearing the ears."

"Why not?"

"Because it is stupid, and pointless."

"So is sitting around drinking tea and yammering on about foreign policy, but I sit and listen."

"You're not actually paying attention? I should think that the socio-economic impact that France's new fiscal policy will cause is an interesting topic."

"The only word I understood was 'new'."

"Hilarious." Mycroft sighed, "I'm not boring...am I?"

"Mm," Greg wrapped his arms around the younger man's waist. "Sort of. But I like you a little boring. Helps balance out the crazy shit I have to deal with on a daily basis."

Mycroft leaned forward and pressed his nose against the DI's without thinking, getting a smudge of black on the tip of his own nose. 

"Oh, god," he muttered, reaching up to rub it off. The DI's hands stopped him, and suddenly there was a headband on his head. "There. Perfect." the other man smirked, directing Mycroft's attention to a mirror.

Mycroft glared at his lover. "You manipulated me."

"Yep. Aren't you proud?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and glanced in the mirror, groaning at the sight of the two of them. "This is so stupid," he muttered, adjusting the crooked cat ears. "Sherlock will make fun of me for years."

"I'm supposed to be a chinchilla. I'm pretty sure a cat is a pretty safe costume, love."

Mycroft smiled at the term of endearment, then sighed again. "I look stupid-" 

"You do not."

"Shut up and let me finish. I look stupid without whiskers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so short x.x


	11. Day Eleven: Wearing Kigurumis

"I'm going to smother you in your sleep." Mycroft hissed, his mouth turned up in a forced smile for the cameras. 

"I'm going to hang myself first." the DI retorted, his own mouth forming a sickeningly sweet and happy grin.

The fundraiser had been testing so far, but for the most part, the smiles on the children's faces as the number of donations for the pediatric ward of the hospital went up kept the two men from hanging themselves. It was humiliating, wearing the ridiculous costumes, but it was better than being painted as selfish bastards who didn't care (which they weren't, but the media did tend to attack the Yard and Mycroft more often now).

"How much longer?" the grey-haired man questioned, leaning down to give a small blue-eyed girl a toy to play with. She smiled up at him, her dimples showing in her thin cheeks. He felt his heart lurch for the child, but firmly reminded himself that her illness was curable. It terrified him that this could possibly happen to his children (well...if he had any. Maybe in the future, if Mycroft was interested...), but he forced himself to be cheerful for the children's sake.

"Don't worry," Mycroft muttered as a few of the media personnel cleared away. "Her illness has already been very nearly cured. And with the donations, she and her family will be fine."

"How are you so damn-" he cut himself off, remembering the children surrounding them (though not before receiving several dirty looks from annoyed parents).

"How are you so bloody perceptive?" he whispered.

"Talent." Mycroft replied, leaning down to pat the cheeks of a small boy in a wheelchair and handing him a stuffed dog, giving the boy a warm smile as the photographer snapped another picture. Mycroft utterly hated functions like this, as they reminded him of a childhood spent in and out of hospitals, though he was normally the one stuck in the waiting room while the doctors poked and prodded at his little brother, trying to figure out his behaviour problems. Mycroft knew it wasn't a medical issue, that Sherlock was just an observant child, but his parents hadn't wanted to believe that their child wasn't normal. So, most of the Holmes brothers' childhood was spent in doctor's offices and hospitals.

Mycroft remembered with a slight cringe his little brother's fear of the scanners, even after it had been explained time and time again that the machines were just loud, and that they wouldn't hurt him. He remembered the little boy's high-pitched crying, the way they had to strap him down after the first scan just so they could get a clear picture. No wonder Sherlock had hated rehab, he thought bitterly; his parents had put him off hospitals. But when he began working with the yard, his opinions slowly changed, though he still refused to actually go to a doctor, instead favouring that John do his yearly exams. Mycroft hadn't objected; as long as his brother was actually getting medical treatment, he didn't care from whom he was getting it.

He felt a tug on the sleeve of his costume, and looked down at the small child in front of him.

The child, who looked to be about six years old, smiled up at Mycroft; he was missing his bottom two teeth, and the smile he gave Mycroft melted the Iceman's heart just a bit. 

"Hello," he murmured, crouching down to the boy's height.

"Hello!" the child murmured shyly, turning his head away and biting his small lip. Mycroft's false smile became a genuine one as he reached out to toy with a strand of the boy's hair. The brunette reminded him so much of Sherlock, with big green eyes and unruly brown curls. The child turned the stuffie over in his small hands, stroking the light brown fur and smiling at the pink cloth tongue lolling out of the stuffed puppy's mouth. 

"What's your name?" the ginger asked, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief as the media dispersed, leaving only himself, Gregory, a few of the children and their families, Anderson (who was being forced to attend as a punishment for tampering with Sherlock's lab samples) and three doctors. Mycroft had had a good laugh at Anderson's expense, because let's face it, the dinosaur costume was utterly and completely ridiculous. At least Mycroft had the relatively not-embarrassing cat costume. Lestrade had wound up having to be some sort of weird thing that Mycroft couldn't remember, something having to do with an anime character, and the three doctors had all been a dog, a fish, and a caterpillar, respectively. Either way, he felt like he lucked out in the costume department.

"Joey," the small boy piped up, hugging the dog to his chest like it was made of diamonds and precious gold, instead of fabric and plastic eyes. "Yours?"

"Mycroft," the ginger answered softly, giving Joey a half-smile. "You like your present, Joey?" he asked, slipping back the head of his costume to allow his head a much-needed breeze. The small child nodded eagerly, stroking the toy's head. 

Mycroft smiled back, then gave the small boy's nose a tweak. "Good," he murmured, gesturing to one of the nurses to take the boy and his newfound friend back to his family. "I'm going to go take off this horrid costume." Mycroft muttered as soon as the two were out of earshot. Greg nodded, too dumbstruck to say anything. He followed Mycroft into the other room and slipped off his own costume, neither of them saying a word. Finally, after they had been redressed in their usual attire, Greg spoke.

"Didn't know you were so good with kids," he said casually, picking up his jacket and slipping it on.

Mycroft quirked his eyebrow, but said nothing. "Well, I did have a younger brother, you remember." he replied in just as casual a tone, grabbing his umbrella and sending a quick text to his driver, instructing him to pull around the back of the building so as not to attract media attention.

As the two walked out, Greg decided to push a bit further. "You'd make a great parent, you know." he said as they slid into the backseat of the car.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Your motives are obvious. Sometimes I think you forget to whom you are speaking. If this is some sort of ploy to get me to say whether or not I want children (which I'm sure it is) then you can stop wasting your time, because I won't discuss these matters this early on in our relationship."

"We've been together nearly a year."

"I'm aware. I was the one who kissed you first, remember?"

"So, I want to know whether or not you want kids."

Mycroft bit his lip and appeared to be deep in thought for a moment.

"Perhaps."


	12. Day Twelve: Making Out

Mycroft ran his tongue over the DI's neck, drinking in his scent. The grey-haired man moaned, turning his head to bite at Mycroft's left ear, eliciting a shudder from the other man.

"This...This is a horrible idea," Mycroft murmured, licking and sucking at the other man's lip, drawing it into his mouth and scraping it gently with his teeth. 

"I care so much," Greg murmured sarcastically, running his hands over Mycroft's cheeks and nibbling at his lip. He reached over and locked the door, using his other hand to unbutton the top button of Mycroft's stiff dress shirt. "You're wearing too many clothes," he murmured, "You should start wearing zippers and Velcro. Or you could just walk around naked."

"I should think that the Chinese ambassador would not be appreciative at having to ogle my dangly bits throughout all my meetings," Mycroft giggled, "But it was a nice thought."

Greg let out a growl and tugged at Mycroft's tie, sliding it off and tossing it in the back seat of the police cruiser. "He can look all he wants, but no one touches what's mine," he leaned down and bit down hard on Mycroft's collarbone, soothing the sting away with his tongue. Mycroft swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing up and down, and let out a soft sigh. "God...you're terrible.." he murmured, running his fingers through the DI's hair, "What if someone sees?"

"Then I fire them." 

"You can't just fire someone for seeing you in a police cruiser with your boyfriend."

"Oh, so we're boyfriends now?"

"Would you prefer the term fuck-buddy?"

Greg almost choked on his own spit. "Oh my god," he gasped, "You swore!"

"Ooh, yes, swearing, so terrible, ooh." Mycroft rolled his eyes and grabbed Greg's collar, holding him still so he could untie his tie and sling it over his shoulder. "I should think you'd be proud; after all, you are the one who taught me how to swear."

"Well I didn't expect you to actually...mm...use them," Greg sighed as Mycroft's soft, wet, pink lips made contact with his neck, and threaded his fingers through the ginger hair. "C'mere," he murmured, quickly unbuttoning his own shirt, then clumsily fumbling with Mycroft's buttons as the younger man licked and bit at his neck.

Mycroft grinned against the DI's neck and slipped the shirt halfway off his shoulders, leaning up to suck at a nipple. Greg bit his lip and threw his head back, nearly knocking it against the window. Mycroft smirked, then trailed his lips down to the other man's abdomen, trailing his tongue around his navel. 

The DI groaned again, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he caught a flash of light, then movement out of the corner of his eyes. "What the-" His eyes widened. "Oh _FUCK_!"

"What?!" Mycroft asked, shocked. 

"Sherlock and John, _shit_!" the DI swore, scrambling off Mycroft's lap and opening the door. "Oi! Come back here!" The DI's shirt was still hanging halfway off his body, and he sneered. "They had a camera." he said with disgust, turning back towards Mycroft. 

The elder Holmes had already exited the cruiser and buttoned his shirt, much to the DI's surprise. "Which way did those Neanderthals go?" he asked frantically. "They went over toward the exit, but you won't be able to-"

Mycroft was gone before the DI could say another word, moving at a speed that betrayed his plump stature (though he had lost a fair bit of weight since he and Greg had begun dating, but Greg insisted he loved the government official either way). Greg chased after him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as they ran after the two men.

"Sherlock! Give me that camera!" Mycroft snarled, trying to catch his laughing younger brother.

"Not happening, brother dearest." Sherlock called back in a sickeningly polite tone.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft gritted his teeth and reached out his arm, grabbing hold of Sherlock's shoulder and whirling him around.

"Mycroft what are you-"

"Give me the camera," Mycroft twisted Sherlock's arm behind his back as efficiently as a police officer making an arrest. "Give it to me."

"No!" Sherlock replied petulantly, trying to twist out of Mycroft's grip.

"Yes!" Mycroft growled, snatching the cell phone with his other hand and tossing it to Greg. "Delete those unsavoury pictures, would you?" 

The DI fumbled with the iPhone for a minute, then sighed with relief as the pictures disappeared one by one. "You're both idiots." he muttered, tossing the pink cell phone back to John.

The doctor blushed then pointed at Sherlock. "His idea."

"Very mature, John, blaming me for something you wanted to do in the first place as a way of covering your metaphorical tracks." Sherlock bit back. "And let go of my arm, Mycroft!"

"Very well." Mycroft released Sherlock's arm and stepped back, smoothing back his mussed ginger hair. "Now, I would appreciate it if you two found something more productive to do than document my sexual activities."

Sherlock sneered, but said nothing, instead turning around and stalking off, John following close behind and muttering something about 'how the hell did he move that fast?'.

Mycroft huffed, then turned back to his lover, who was still wearing a dumbfounded expression. "What? Do I have something on my face?" Mycroft deadpanned, gently taking the DI's arm and leading him back to the cruiser to get their clothes.

"How the hell did you run that fast?!" Greg blurted out.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You realize that size and speed are two different things, yes?"

"Well, yeah, of course, and I'm not saying you're fat, it's just....Surprising." the grey-haired man reached up to rub the back of his neck. "How'd you do it?"

Mycroft smirked. "I leave the flat at five in the morning. I arrive at work at seven. In between, I have sessions with a private trainer. How do you think I lost all that weight? Diet without exercise is pointless."

"So you've been working out every morning for the past what, six, seven months?"

"Mostly, yes."

"So that's how you got so flexible." the DI chuckled.

Mycroft blushed slightly. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy it."

"Oh, I do," Greg replied, reaching up to tuck an errant curl behind Mycroft's ear. "Can I watch sometime?"

"You want to watch me panting and sweating because...?"

"Well, not like I don't see you like that daily anyway."

"Touche."


	13. Day Thirteen: Eating Ice Cream

"You're doing that on purpose." Greg grumbled as he glared at his lover.

"Hm?" Mycroft murmured, looking over at the DI with an innocent look on his face.

"That thing, that thing you're doing with your mouth," the DI replied, trying to tear his eyes away from the soft, pink lips that were now pressed against a scoop of vanilla ice cream. "You're doing that on purpose."

"I don't know what you mean," Mycroft said nonchalantly, leaning back and running his tongue over his top lip, gathering up some of the melted dessert. "I'm simply enjoying a treat, which I don't usually get to do because of this diet, so I don't know what you're talking about."

"That little thing you're doing with your tongue," the DI growled, "The way you're licking it, you're teasing me, you're trying to get me hard."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, I most certainly am not," Mycroft scoffed, running his tongue over the sides of the ice cream to keep it from dripping on his suit, "Honestly, not everything I do is about you." The government official pursed his lips around the top part of the scoop of ice cream, swirling his tongue around it, still looking at Greg.

The DI swallowed, then bit his lip, watching as Mycroft's mouth wrapped itself around the bottom of the cone and sucked out the drips at the bottom, his cock twitching with interest. He scolded himself, but couldn't tear his eyes away from Mycroft's lips. 

"I hate you." he grumbled, tearing his eyes away from Mycroft and staring out the window of the train; their holiday was well-deserved, and a week in Paris didn't seem all that terrible to the DI, but being stuck on this damn train while having to stare at Mycroft sucking on that ice cream cone was breaking him, especially after that horrid flight they'd had to endure.

"Mhm, sure you do," Mycroft replied, turning his head to glance out the window as well. "You know, you could get one of these. They're quite good."

"What about your diet?" Greg snarked.

Mycroft shot him a dirty look. "I'm on holiday. I'm allowed to eat what I want. And I am not the only one in need of a diet." he nudged Greg's stomach for emphasis.

The DI rolled his eyes, then sighed; Mycroft was right, as always, but he didn't have to rub it in.

"Well, you didn't have to make that diet comment, either. You brought it upon yourself. You know I never let anyone else have the last word." Mycroft remarked without taking his eyes off the countryside. Greg raised his eyebrows, then rolled his eyes. 

"Sometimes I don't wonder if you're a bit psychic, you know that?"

"I may very well be, but not in the traditional sense. I'm just more observant than the rest of you." Mycroft made a soft slurping sound, and Greg whipped his head around just in time to catch Mycroft with a drop of the white ice cream dripping down his chin. Before the ginger could wipe it away, the DI leaned over and ran his tongue over Mycroft's chin and lower lip, catching the drop before it got on his expensive suit, his cock nudging the government official's hip.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, allowing his lover to lick away the drop, then lean back in his own seat, a smug smile on his face. Mycroft made a face and rolled his eyes.

"Enjoying yourself?" he said, nodding at the DI's pelvis.

"Immensely." Greg said, sulking and turning away.

"Hmph." Mycroft shrugged turning away and polishing off the remainder of the ice cream before biting down on the cone.

"You really do enjoy torturing me, don't you?" Greg remarked, moving his jacket onto his lap to hide his slight arousal.

"Of course I do." 

"One of these days I'm going to really hurt you for pulling that shit, you know that?"

"Ooh, I'm shaking, look at my shaky shaky hands." Mycroft mocked, popping the rest of the cone in in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

Greg huffed, "You're so annoying."

"Yes, well, you know what's annoying? Sending your lover blatant signals only to have him ignore them in favour of sulking."

"Signals? Wait...You weren't teasing me?"

"I don't tease. I take what I want."

"Well, what is it that you want, dare I ask?"

"There is an unoccupied loo located two cars down. And since you and I are already members of the 'Mile-High Club', I thought we might have a bit of good old-fashioned fun on this train as well."

"You kinky bastard." the DI whispered, smirking.

"I take it that means you're interested?"

Greg took Mycroft's hand and ran his finger over the back of it, leaning over to whisper in Mycroft's ear. His breath was warm and wet, and his words were soft and sounded utterly sinful.

"Brilliant deduction, Mr. Holmes."


	14. Day 14: Genderswapped

"Hm,"

Mycroft Holmes threw her head back and moaned, running her fingers through her partner's grey hair, toying with one of the silver curls.

"Yes?"

Gwen Lestrade tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking up at her partner with flashing brown eyes. "What?"

"Can you just...oh, good god, don't stop," Mycroft murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the other woman's head.

The silver-haired woman smirked, running her tongue along Mycroft's collarbone. "You like this?" she breathed, mouthing at her lover's shoulder.

"Oh, god, yes," Mycroft murmured, arching her back as Gwen's talented tongue ran down to her breasts, sucking a soft, pink nipple into her mouth. The government official let out a soft squeak, biting her lip. "Yes," she hissed, reaching up to tug at Gwen's curls. "Ah ah," the DI tsked, "Hands on the headboard."

Mycroft grunted in frustration and reached back to grip the headboard at the DI's insistence. 

"Good girl," Gwen breathed, tweaking Mycroft's other nipple as a reward. The government official squeezed the headboard, the expensive wood digging into her hands. "Come _on_ ," she growled, "Get on with it! I'm not a bloody china doll!"

"Funny, because you've got the skin of one," Gwen retorted, sinking her teeth into the sensitive flesh below Mycroft's left nipple. The ginger let out another loud squeak, arching her back, trying to get at least a little friction between her legs, but Gwen was in her way. "Move," she muttered, clutching harder at the headboard.

"Fine, pet," the DI murmured, reaching her hand down to rub at Mycroft's hip, coming teasingly close to touching her just where she needed it. The government official squirmed under the DI's expert hands, achingly aroused. "Come _on_!" Mycroft finally had enough, reaching down to grab Gwen's hair. She flipped them over so she was atop her lover, the DI letting out a surprised sound. "Mycroft-"

"Shush," Mycroft ground her pelvis against Gwen's, the slickness and friction causing the DI to moan in ardent passion.

"Mycroft, _god_!" she cried out. "Mm," Mycroft leaned down and bit Gwen's lip, running her tongue along her lover's straight, white teeth. "You like this?" Mycroft whispered, smirking. Taking control of the entire situation, she pressed several kisses down Gwen's body, slithering down and pressing her tongue flat against her lover's-

BEEP

Mycroft rolled over and groaned, hoping that the loud noise was just a fluke.

BEEP

He opened his eye and stared at the clock; 5:16 a.m. He groaned and was about to shut it off, when something stopped him. Was that...?

"Oh, great," he murmured, scrubbing a hand over his face and looking down. He hadn't woken up with sticky sheets since he was seventeen, but this...well, this dream certainly warranted some sort of reaction, though he hadn't expected it to have quite such an effect on him. He was utterly confused, actually; he wasn't attracted to women at _all_ , so why did this particular dream have such a potent effect?

 _"Because it's Greg,"_ his inner voice muttered, _"You get off on the idea of him looking like a girl, of you both being girls. It's weird, but not as weird as you think. Maybe you two could play dress-up."_ the voice mocked.

Mycroft shook his head of the ridiculous thought (it wasn't totally ridiculous, but he didn't want to admit that even to himself) and grimaced, a bit disgusted with himself.

"A forty-five year old having wet dreams, how-"

"Mycroft?" Greg murmured, rolling over to look at his lover, "You awake?"

Mycroft froze. "Obviously." he answered, his tone flat.

Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, a habit that drove Mycroft insane.

"You sure, because you were muttering in your sleep, and-" Greg stopped.

Mycroft glanced up at the DI, a questioning expression on his face. The DI looked up at him, then smirked. Mycroft knew that look, and blushed a deep shade of pink.

"Have a bit of fun while I was asleep?" he chuckled, earning him a smack on the head with a pillow from Mycroft.

"Shut up," the government official bit back, turning and making to get out of the bed. A warm pair of arms around his waist stopped him, and he sighed. "What are you doing?"

"I want to know what that dream was about," Greg murmured, biting at Mycroft's ear.

"Get off," the ginger snapped, wiggling his shoulders and trying to get out of his lover's grip.

"Do you really think that's a wise choice of words, my love?" Greg chuckled, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "C'mon, tell me. Was it about me?"

Mycroft huffed. "You're a narcissist." he accused.

"Yep. Now tell me what that dream was about."

Mycroft sneered, then smiled as an idea popped into his head. He twisted around and out of the DI's grip, quickly taking several steps towards the loo. "Not telling you," he repeated, smirking.

"Come on, tell me!" the DI cried in exasperation, "Now I'm fucking curious."

Mycroft shrugged. "If you want to hear it, fine. You won't like it, though."

"Mycroft. Who. Was. It."

"Tom Hiddleston."

The look on the DI's face was utterly priceless, and Mycroft couldn't help but laugh. "Told you," he muttered before stepping into the small room and shutting the door.


	15. Day Fifteen: In A Different Clothing Style

"Oi, Mycroft, check this out."

Mycroft glanced up from his book (rather annoyed that Gregory had interrupted him in the middle of Misery) and raised his eyebrows. His lover was clad in a black t-shirt and leather jacket, his hair mussed. Mycroft looked the other man up and down, taking in every details.

Hair, slightly messy, probably as a result of running his fingers through it to purposefully muss it up. Light blue jeans, most likely a few years old, judging by how thin the material was at the knee. The offending jacket, which had a chain hanging from one of the pockets, the government official noted with disgust; how _common._

"What is _that_?" the ginger asked, setting down the horror novel and removing his reading glasses.

"It's my old leather jacket. I bought this when I was in uni. It still fits!" the DI smirked and stepped in front of Mycroft, arms folded just so the leather was stretched over his arm muscles.

Mycroft unconsciously licked his lips, and inwardly scolded himself. He was nervous; he always seemed to get nervous whenever the DI decided to do something unexpected. Mycroft was a man of planning, of rules and regulation; Lestrade was spontaneous, always coming up with new 'fun' things for the two of them to do together, oftentimes surprising Mycroft the day of said things, without any warning beforehand. 

"Well? What do you think?" The DI poked Mycroft's shoulder.

"I think I've suddenly been transported into a production of 'Rent'. Why do you ask my opinion of it?"

"Because I bought you one," the DI smirked, turning around and trotting back into the bedroom. "I didn't know quite the correct size, but we can always exchange it if it doesn't fit. I thought we could go do something fun, relaxed. No offense, but I'm sick of the posh business. We should go out to the pub or something, have a few beers. Casual, y'know?"

Mycroft cringed at the thought of having to wear a leather jacket. He had accepted a long time ago that he didn't look good in much, save for his suits. He adored his suits, but his lover saw them as 'too posh' for everyday wear. Mycroft had always been baffled by this, as suits _were_ everydaywear when he was growing up. 

"Come in here, see if it fits!" 

Mycroft groaned softly and hoisted himself up from the couch, dreading what was to come. He despised trying on clothes, not only because he found it to be tedious, but also because he was self-conscious around his lover. They had been together over a year, but Mycroft still wasn't comfortable with parading himself around in front of the DI, especially in the last month or so. Work-related dramas had caused him to cheat on his diet and revert back to old habits, mostly stress-eating. If he was chewing something, he was busy, and it was taking his mind off whatever problem he had at the moment. Unfortunately, it was also taking a toll on his waistline, and the problem was still there when the food was gone.

The ginger stepped into the room, leaning against the doorframe uncomfortably, giving his lover a weak smile. He glanced at the jacket, and his heart sank; he could tell just by looking at it that it was going to be too small. "I don't think it'll fit, love," he murmured, rooted to where he was standing. 

"Mycroft, come on, just try it." the DI pleaded, "I'm sure it'll fit."

"No." Mycroft said petulantly, folding his arms, "It will not fit, and I would rather save myself the humiliation."

"Please? For me?"

"Not for all the chocolate in Belgium."

"Damn, you are serious."

"Was that supposed to be a wisecrack about my weight?" Mycroft snapped.

The DI's eyebrows shot up, and he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "No, no, Christ," he muttered, "Forget it, then."

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek, then sighed. "I know it will not fit, Gregory. I've put on at least thirty pounds since we last went clothes shopping."

"Is that why you've been acting weird lately?"

"Define 'weird', because by most standards, I'm weird all the time."

"I mean, not wanting to have sex as often, and when we do, it's with the lights off."

"Yes."

"Yes to what?"

"Yes, my weight gain played a role in this," the ginger turned away, "I hate trying on clothes."

"But you look good in everything, how can you hate it?"

"You flatter me, Gregory. But the fact of the matter is that I don't look good in anything but my suits."

The DI shook his head. "You look good in plenty. And before you say anything else, just try the jacket. I'll even go in the other room. If you hate it, then just put it back in the box and I'll return it. Deal?"

Mycroft eyed the DI warily. "Fine." he said, exasperated, "But this had better be a bloody amazing jacket."

As soon as Greg had left the room, Mycroft picked up the jacket. It was smooth, and butter-soft; the thing probably cost an arm an a leg, he realized. Reluctantly, he shrugged off his usual jacket and waistcoat and pulled the offending garment on over his dress shirt, keeping his eyes shut.

After a few minutes, Greg knocked on the door to their bedroom. "Mycroft?"

"Come in."

He opened the door, fully prepared to see the government official sulking in a chair (as was the usual after he had tried on clothes that didn't fit), but he was pleasantly surprised to see Mycroft clad in the black jacket, smiling at his reflection in the mirror.

Greg smiled and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. "See, I told you you'd like it." he chuckled. "See why you love me?"

Mycroft turned his head and batted his eyelashes dramatically. "I'm hopelessly devoted to you," he said in a sickeningly girlish voice.

"Grease, really?"

"It was the first one that popped into my head, give me a break."

"Cute."

"Be quiet."


	16. Days Sixteen and Seventeen: During Their Morning Rituals/Spooning

Mycroft is an early bird, rising at the crack of dawn, his internal clock set in a permanent cycle from years of early meetings and 4am flights to exotic countries. Greg is a night owl, his body accustomed to the late hours usually kept by police officers. 

He never used to be disturbed by Mycroft's early rising when they first begun their relationship endeavor; he'd always been a heavy sleeper, and a little shifting next to him in the bed surely wasn't going to wake him. After about two months of sharing a bed, he had woken up when Mycroft left the bed, but was able to get back to sleep fairly quickly. Now, more than a year into their relationship, he was unable to get back to sleep at all once Mycroft had left their shared bed.

The DI felt the mattress shifting next to him, and he lazily opened one eye, groaning as the government official got out of bed and stretched. "Go back to sleep, you idiot," he muttered, "It's five thirty in the fucking morning."

"Yes, and I have to get up, so shut up." Mycroft yawned, scratching at the back of his neck. Greg smirked; Mycroft was always a bit less eloquent after just waking up. He reached up and grabbed the government official's arm, tugging him back down onto the bed.

"Oi! Stop that!" Mycroft yelped as he was pulled back under the warm blankets. He had picked up several of his partner's mannerisms over the course of the past year, most notably his speech patterns. Greg thought it was cute, the way Mycroft was now comfortable casually swearing in front of him. He pulled the ginger close and wrapped a leg around his waist, pinning him into the mattress. He rubbed his cheek against Mycroft's, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin on Mycroft's neck, 

"Come on, let me go," the ginger muttered, weakly struggling to get out of the DI's grip. "I have a meeting..."

"Blow it off. I'm sure the king of no-man's-land won't mind you being an hour late. Go back to sleep."

"I can't, not with this meeting-"

"Shh," the silver-haired man placed a finger on Mycroft's lips. "Shh, go back to sleep."

"I think your comprehension skills are slipping, Gregory. What I _said_ was..." 

A hand over Mycroft's mouth and nose silenced him, and he froze. "Shh," the DI repeated, "Go back to sleep. You look like hell." Greg felt a wetness on his hand and pulled it away, a disgusted expression on his face. "You licked my hand!" he exclaimed, wiping his fingers on the bed. "Gross!"

"I've licked you odder places, and then kissed you to boot. Stop being a baby." Mycroft retorted, deciding to not leave the bed, just for a moment. "Why do you insist that I stay in bed every morning? What is this fascination you have with keeping me in bed until nine o'clock?"

"Because...." Greg rolled his eyes. "Just because. And it doesn't look like you're exactly annoyed by it."

"I am annoyed, but the soft mattress is making up for some of that annoyance." Mycroft yawned, feeling sleepiness beginning to muddle his brain; he _had_ been working quite hard lately. Maybe he deserved some sleep...

Greg ran his hand up and down Mycroft's side, dipping his fingers into the slight love handles on Mycroft's back. He smiled, tracing his fingernail along the lump of fat and muscle; he liked Mycroft with a bit of extra weight on him. He found it attractive, adorable, even. Though he'd never tell Mycroft that. He pressed a kiss to the side of the sleeping government official's head, then reached for his phone, sending a quick text to Anthea.

_Can you reschedule Mycroft's meetings? -GL_

_Of course I am capable of doing so, I think the correct phrase you're looking for is 'will you please reschedule Mycroft's meetings'. -A_

_I wasn't aware I needed to say please, Your Highness. GL_

_I would need a month to describe all the things you are unaware of. -A_

_...just do it. GL_

_Can do. Have a nice day. -A_

_Thanks. GL_

The DI set the phone down on the nightstand and spooned up behind Mycroft, giving his ear a gentle kiss and closing his eyes.

Mycroft awoke several hours later, a puddle of drool next to his mouth and sleep in his eyes. "What th-" he glanced over at the clock, his eyebrows shooting up. "Oh, god!" he muttered, pulling out of the Detective Inspector's warm embrace and leaping out of the bed. Lestrade let out a soft grunt and opened his eyes. "Mycroft, what the-"

"I'm late, _hours_ late. You made me late." Mycroft blathered, "You idiot, why did I let you talk me into that?! Now my meetings will all have to be rescheduled, I'll have to lick the boots of everyone I stood up-"

"Mycroft, they're already rescheduled." Greg interrupted, rolling over onto his back and placing his arms behind his head. Mycroft stopped dead. "What?"

"When you fell asleep, I called Anthea and had her reschedule your meetings for tomorrow." the DI stated simply, yawning and scratching his head. "Problem?"

"I...you...ugh." Mycroft rolled his eyes and flopped back onto the bed. "You realize those delegates are going to think I'm an idiot, don't you?"

"And you care because...?"

Mycroft sneered and rolled his eyes. "Well, considering my career depends on me being a proverbial social butterfly, yes."

"Since when do you suck up to anybody? You're Mycroft fucking Holmes, you bend for no man." Greg did a girlish hair flip, with what little hair he had.

Mycroft chuckled, then sighed. "You'll be the death of me. Me, my career, my sanity..."

"Can't get rid of what was never there."

A glare from the ginger made the DI burst into a fit of laughter, and Mycroft smiled. "You're such an idiot." he muttered affectionately, wrapping an arm around the DI's shoulder.

"Mhm, sure."

"Shut up."

"Shall I make you breakfast?"

"I love you."

The silver-haired man grinned. "It's impossible not to, I know. But I suspect you love me for my skills in the kitchen."

"And in bed."

Greg barked out a laugh and ruffled Mycroft's curls, smiling as a stray one fell down onto his forehead. "You're cute." he murmured.

"I am not. We've had this argument."

"You are. End of discussion."

"But it isn't-"

"End of discussion."

"...You realize I could probably smother you in your sleep and make it look like an accident."

"I'm terrified."

"Rude."

"Again, breakfast?"

"Have I ever refused it before?" 

Greg smirked and rolled over, taking a moment to adjust to the movement before getting out of the bed. "And I suppose you're just going to lay there like a rock?"

"Pretty much, yes."

The DI chuckled, shook his head, and snatched his robe up off the floor, trodding into the kitchen to make them both their morning tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist combining them! >u>


	17. Day Eighteen: Doing Something Together

"It's lovely here, isn't it?"

Greg turned and pressed a kiss to his lover's cheek as they looked out across the Mediterranean, drinking in the warm air. "It is," the government official agreed, nibbling on the DI's ear. "But I'm still going to get a thorough chewing-out for not showing up at that dreadful ball we were supposed to attend....an hour ago. You know, back in London."

"Hm," Greg turned around in his lover's arms, facing him, then glanced up at the stars. "I have to admit, I prefer it here. London seems cold, wet, and...dreadful compared to Greece."

"I thought you'd like it here. This was the very first place I ever attended a summit as a politician. I was...Christ, twenty-six. That was centuries ago."

"Yep. You're getting old." the DI teased, giving Mycroft a firm kiss on the lips. The same rolled his eyes and pinched the other man's arse, earning him a surprised squeak and a smack on his own arse. "Hey, you want the milk, you have to buy the cow."

"I believe I've been milking that metaphorical cow for well over a year." Mycroft retorted.

"Still witty as ever. Or are you just having a lucid moment before your senility kicks in, old man?"

"I am two years _younger_ than you!"

"Which makes it all the more sad that you've gone senile. I blame Sherlock."

"Oh, shut up. You have a real talent for ruining lovely, romantic, memorable moments with your stupidity." Mycroft muttered, pressing a kiss to the corner of Greg's mouth.

"You know you love it," the DI murmured, smiling as a comet streaked across the sky. "Oi, a shooting star. Make a wish."

"That's utterly ridiculous, it's a ball of rock, dust, and ice, it can't grant wishes. You've lost it."

"It's supposed to be fun, Mycroft. C'mon, there must be _something_ you wish for. Maybe a new suit? Cake?" Greg playfully poked Mycroft in the side, nuzzling his neck.

Mycroft let out a huff. "Well, there is one thing," he said quietly, "I wish what I'm about to do goes over well."

"You're not going to toss me overboard, are you?"

"Not unless you say no." Mycroft bit his lip and pulled away from the DI, reaching into his pocket. The silver-haired man stared as Mycroft produced a small, velvet box from inside his trouser pocket, becoming a bit flustered and fumbling with it a bit. The ginger took a deep breath, then looked up at Greg, slowly moving to get down on one knee.

"Yes." Greg interrupted him; Mycroft froze, halfway to the ground, the box half-open.

"You ruined it," he groaned, "You git, you ruined it."

"Fine then, go on, Christ."

"No, I already know your answer. Good god, I had an entire speech planned out."

"You can still say it, go ahead."

"That isn't how it works, you moron. I'm supposed to be completely nervous, stumbling over my words, blushing. It's supposed to be a story that you can tell people to embarrass me."

"You realized you asked me to marry you and called me a moron all within the past five minutes."

Mycroft tried to sneer, but a nervous giggle escaped him. "So...right." he stood up fully and straightened his jacket. "So, you'll marry me then?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously. But you can ask again, if you like. Actually, it's better now, because you can be as sentimental as you want, and you know you won't embarrass yourself."

"Fair enough. Will you-"

"Ah ah, do it right." Greg gestured to the ground, quirking an eyebrow and smirking.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "You've turned into me."

"Scared?"

"Terrified." the ginger deadpanned, lowering himself down onto one knee. He took a deep breath, paused, then spoke.

"You have been a constant in my ever-changing world. My support, my therapist, my lover, my defender, my backup, and my best friend. It's difficult to believe that less than two years ago, I believed that caring was not an advantage. I used to believe that caring for someone other than yourself was detrimental, both to your emotional and psychological health. I would wake up alone, and fall asleep alone, and would pretend it didn't bother me. I lied to myself for years, telling myself I didn't need anyone else, but I had no idea how wrong I was until I met you. When I first saw you, I didn't know quite what to think of you. When I...for all intents and purposes, let's say abducted...you before you were going to hire my brother, your bravery and skills in the areas of wit and humour impressed me immensely.

I had always believed that pursuing you was futile, that you would never be interested in me. My self-confidence had never been high to begin with, and I always feared you would reject me, or worse, laugh in my face. But, as I am a Holmes, I saw right through your clumsiness and awkward conversation, and immediately knew that you returned my feelings.

All this time, through every fight, every struggle, every joyous moment, and every heartbreak, you have been there by my side. You are the one I want to spend the rest of my days with; the one I want to drive up the wall, the one I want to hold at night, the one I want to argue with, and the one I want to love. You are the reason I awake in the morning, the comfort that allows me to sleep at night, and the light in every darkness that the world may cast over us. And no one, in this life, nor any other, has ever made me feel more sure, more insecure, more important, and less significant.

Gregory Lestrade...Would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"

The DI swallowed, speechless. Tears were pooling in the corners of his eyes, and he managed to nod before biting his lip and letting a few of them fall. "Yes," he whispered, reaching up to wipe the tears away, "Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes."

Mycroft smiled and stood up, removing the ring from the box and slipping it onto the other man's finger. Greg smiled up at the ginger, his bottom lip still quivering slightly. "I...God, I love you," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss his lover.

Mycroft chuckled. "And I you, my love." 

The government official pulled the silver-haired man closer, their bodies melding together. The sun peeked up over the horizon, bathing the two in a warm, light orange glow. "Breakfast, fiancee?" the ginger asked sweetly. Greg nodded, then leaned in for another kiss, running his fingers through the auburn curls.


	18. Day Nineteen: In Formal Wear

"So how does it feel, being married?"

Greg and John were standing under a doorway, their faces slightly obscured in the shadows. John was clad in a dark blue suit, Greg in a tuxedo (that was as uncomfortable as could be, but Mycroft had insisted they wear their best clothes to his brother's wedding), and each held a glass of champagne in their hand. Most of the other guests were either chatting amongst themselves, or at the bar, giving the two friends a rare chance to speak in private. Greg hadn't seen John in a social setting for weeks, maybe months. The doctor had been quite busy, both with planning his wedding to Sherlock and with all the cases Sherlock had insisted on taking, citing that NSY was 'even more incompetent than usual' on them. Greg hadn't minded too much; it had given him more time to spend with Mycroft, and that was always a perk.

The DI smiled at John and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. "That ceremony was lovely, really it was." the silver-haired man chattered excitedly, "You two looked great."

"Thanks, Greg," John's cheeks were pink, and he was practically glowing with happiness. "It's weird; it feels the same, but different, and everything is sort of...I don't know, I'm rambling, coming down from the nerves I guess."

"Understandable, mate," Greg chuckled, "I'm surprised you got Sherlock to stay still that long."

"It took a lot." John cleared his throat, blushing slightly. The DI grinned. "You sly bastard. Well, it was great, and you two'll be really happy, I can tell. Anyone who can put up with Sherlock for as long as you have can make it through anything. Where are you two going for your honeymoon?"

"Honestly? We're probably staying at 221b, and we'll probably take a case. But what do you expect," the doctor shrugged, "At least he didn't make loud, obnoxious deductions about the guests. Well...at least not during the ceremony." The blonde glanced around, scanning the crowd for his husband. "Where did he-"

"There is a reason I was married first, brother," Sherlock's baritone sounded from behind them, an icy edge to his voice. "And your matrimonial proposal sounds disgustingly sentimental. The Detective Inspector has turned you soft. Well, emotionally soft, in any case, as your physical state is shall we say, more than a little plump?"

"Well, at least Gregory doesn't think so. I don't particularly care what you think, Sherlock, because I am still getting married, and it won't be to you." Mycroft snapped back as the Brothers Holmes approached their respective partners. "And for your information, I am the perfect weight for my height. So I suggest you stop making silly comments and focus your attention where it belongs. On John." With that last word, Mycroft turned to face John.

"John," Mycroft said with as much warmth as he could muster, "The ceremony was quite nice, you two did a very good job with the planning. Congratulations." Mycroft reached out his hand, slender fingers curling around John's wrist in a light handshake. John smiled and shook back, then gave Greg a slap on the back. 

"So I hear you two are getting married too, eh? My sympathies." he teased. Mycroft smiled, a genuine, rare Holmes smile. "Yes, well, hopefully we are, if everything goes well."

"Be careful, Lestrade. Mycroft is the epitome of a bridezilla." Sherlock muttered. "Is that the correct term?"

"No, the most accurate thing you could say at this moment is 'I'm an idiot, don't listen to me, I have no idea what my brother's relationship is like, so I should silence myself before he shoves his umbrella somewhere rather uncomfortable'." Mycroft retorted. Greg let out a sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh, and John laughed shamelessly. 

"He's really not all that bad, Sherlock," the DI coughed, "And we don't have to worry about that for awhile."

"You're right," Mycroft murmured, slipping an arm around the DI's waist, "Not for awhile, but soon enough." 

Greg smiled, leaning up to kiss his lover, running his hand over the expensive suit that had originally been reserved for the ball they had so carelessly blown off. "And Sherlock," the silver-haired man turned to face the consulting detective, "Mycroft bought these suits a long time ago. His had to be taken in three sizes. So there."

Mycroft beamed with pride at his lover, and smirked at his brother's reaction, which was a light snort and a scoff. "So you say," he muttered, wrapping his own arm awkwardly around John's shoulder. John, sensing the tension, wrapped his own arm around Sherlock's waist and giving him a peck on the cheek. Sherlock visibly relaxed, and even blushed a little, seeing as he was never one for public displays of affection. Well, he had never been one for displays of affection, period; that is, until he met John.

"When are you guys thinking of getting married? And where?" John questioned, seamlessly changing the subject in a way Greg could only envy.

"Late summer, perhaps early autumn. I do love the way the leaves change, don't you?" Mycroft replied, running his fingers over the back of Greg's suit. John nodded, and was about to reply, when one of his favourite songs began to play. "Oh, god, I love this one. Sherlock, can we-"

"No."

"Sherlock. Please?"

"...No."

"Sherlock."

"Oh, for god's sake," Sherlock sighed, exasperated, and took John's hand. "Come on, then. One dance. I don't see the point of it, and I will not be enthusiastic about any of it, but for your sake, I will."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "One moment, brother." he murmured, pulling away from his lover and stepping toward Sherlock. Sherlock stared back at him, an eyebrow raised. "Yes?"

The ginger cleared his throat. "Yes, well... I would just like to say, and you will never hear this type of useless sentiment from me again, that I am very happy for you and John, and dare I say, proud of your accomplishments in the field of proper social interaction. You have made quantum leaps from where you were before, and even I could not have helped you get to this point."

"You... You are proud of me?" Sherlock's eyebrows were practically trying to crawl right off his face.

"Yes," Mycroft replied, smiling a little, "And I am happy to say I was wrong about both your career choice, which is not ridiculous or frivolous, and about your ability to find love."

"You're proud to say you were wrong? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" Sherlock murmured in awe, his eyes widening.

Mycroft chuckled, then leaned forward and gave Sherlock a soft kiss on the cheek. "I am. Congratulations, Sherlock. Honestly."

Sherlock was stunned for a moment, then allowed a slight smile to tug at the corners of his lips. "Thank you."

"If you two are done having your Lifetime moment, the song is nearly over," John kidded, tugging Sherlock away towards the middle of the room. Mycroft raised his hand in a dismissive gesture, then turned back to his lover. "What?"

"You... Good god, I love you," the DI murmured, slinking his arms around Mycroft's waist. "Let's dance?"

"Fine. But I have to admit, despite years of lessons, I am a dreadful dancer."

"Well, certain types of dancing."

Mycroft blushed, then kissed the DI firmly on the mouth. "Shush. Let's go."


	19. Day Twenty: Dancing

The DI wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist, smiling up at the ginger. Mycroft smiled somewhat nervously back, resting his chin on Greg's shoulder. "I told you, I am a terrible dancer," he murmured as the song finished playing, giving his lover a soft kiss on the shell of his ear. 

"I know. You damn near broke my toes the last time we tried."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, brushing his lips against the DI's ear. "You're the one that insists we dance at every opportunity. I can't help the fact that all the Holmes grace went to my younger brother."

"Sherlock is anything but graceful, Mycroft." Greg murmured as another song began to play; some new song he didn't know the name of, he realized. Not a particularly fitting song for a wedding reception, but the beat was nice, and at least it wasn't that horrid American pop music his ex-wife had insisted play at their wedding. Her love of Katy Perry had been endearing at first, but after the twentieth rendition of 'Teenage Dream' had played, the DI had been more than a little aggravated.

Mycroft awkwardly adjusted his arms, trying to find an adequate position. Greg rolled his eyes and properly adjusted them, leaning up to rest his head on Mycroft's shoulder. The government official sighed, pressing his cheek to the DI's as they swayed.

"You can't dance." the silver-haired man mumbled into Mycroft's lapels. 

"I can't slow-dance, no. I'm not built for it."

"Shut up, you're perfect," Greg replied, "We should get you better dance lessons. We are dancing at our wedding."

"An inaccurate compliment, but I thank you for it nonetheless. And I am not dancing at our wedding, not unless you want me to fall flat on my face."

"How about I knock you on your arse instead?" Greg lifted his head and glared at the ginger. "You're fantastic," he muttered, "You can't dance, but you're fantastic."

"I cannot _slow-dance_. I never said I couldn't dance well during certain circumstances. Also, I'm glad you recognize how lucky you are."

"Modest, too," the DI deadpanned, "And what do you mean?"

An expression of uncertainty crossed Mycroft's face, and he shook his head. "Nevermind. Unimportant."

"Mycroft." Greg raised an eyebrow in a perfect mimicry of Mycroft.

The ginger sighed, tightening his grip on the other man as the bridge played. "As I said, unimportant. I can't dance."

"You must be able to dance in some way, shape or form. Everyone can."

"I can't," the government official murmured into Greg's ear as the sounds of the music swelled and faded, "I'm not at all graceful. And the few times I have tried to dance, it hasn't gone well."

Greg was silent for a minute, waiting for the chattering voices that always seemed to happen right after a song ended to cease. "If we go somewhere else, somewhere private, will you dance with me?"

"Absolutely not." Mycroft muttered, pulling away, "I am utterly dreadful at dancing."

"C'mon, Myc. Please?" the DI stepped forward and cupped Mycroft's face in his hands, sticking out his bottom lip.

"Don't do that," Mycroft muttered, his expression faltering as he saw the look his fiancee was giving him. "No. I'm not dancing."

"Please?"

"I...no."

"Please?"

"..."

"Pretty please?"

"...I hate you."

"Mhm," the DI smirked, reaching down to take Mycroft's hand. "Come on, show me how you dance."

"Like an electrocuted spider on a hot pan." Mycroft muttered.

Greg laughed, then pulled the government official toward the next room. "It can't be that bad."

"I cannot dance." the ginger groaned as the DI closed the door behind them, "I honest to god, truly cannot dance."

"We'll see about that, alright? Take my hand."

Mycroft sighed and took his lover's hand, placing a hand on his lower back. "Alright?"

"Just fine. Now just let the music sort of... _flow_ through you."

"Sounds painful."

"Mycroft."

Mycroft huffed, "Fine." He took the DI's hand and let him lead, their simple box step turning into a more complicated dance as the music played on.

"See? You can dance," the DI murmured, placing his head gently on the other's shoulder.

"Hm, yes, well..." Mycroft took a deep breath and relaxed a bit more, reminding himself that it was only Gregory. "This is...dare I say, nice." he said softly, pressing his cheek to the side of his partner's head. "As long as you lead, I suppose I could tolerate dancing for three minutes at our wedding. But I absolutely refuse to do any of the other dances associated with modern weddings."

"What, you don't want to do the hokey pokey?"

"I will divorce you so fast you will not even know what hit you if you make me do that."

"Fair enough. Now shut up and dance."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, then pulled his partner closer, closing his eyes and letting the music take him away.


	20. Day Twenty-One: Cooking/Baking Together

"I see no reason why we have to do this. My favourite bakery is open on Saturday mornings." Mycroft huffed as he turned on the oven, then turned to watch his lover measuring out the flour for a chocolate cake. A thin dusting of the white powder littered the countertop, mixed with cocoa powder in places, and Mycroft shuddered to think what the cleaning staff would think of the two of them. Well, if the mess didn't drive Mycroft crazy before then.

"For _bonding _, Mycroft," the DI murmured, cracking open several eggs and putting them in a bowl. "It's fun to cook things together, it's what couples do."__

__"If one of the partners is bloody Paula Deen, then yes," Mycroft retorted, "But, as I have told you hundreds of times, I am unable to cook without maiming myself."_ _

__"I don't believe that."_ _

__"Anthea tells me I'm such a klutz, I could trip over a cordless phone."_ _

__"Bless that woman and her accuracy."_ _

__"Do shut up." Mycroft bit back, "You're the one who can't manage to get through one day without spilling coffee on himself."_ _

__"Oi, that isn't my fault. They don't put the lids on straight." the DI offered weakly as he poured the eggs into the bowl with the flour._ _

__"And I suppose the powdered sugar and jam that you always 'happen'," Mycroft accentuated his point with air quotes, "To get on your shirts? There are no lids on doughnuts. You're just a sloppy eater.''_ _

__"I am not, shut up. And even if I were, it's justified. You try keeping yourself clean when you have to chase after Sherlock."_ _

__"I _did_ chase after Sherlock, you forget," Mycroft chuckled, "Imagine Sherlock with twice as much energy and thrice the stubbornness. Now put that up over the span of, oh, about ten years. And add in some puberty for good measure." _ _

__"Good god...How did you not kill him when he was little? Or even now?"_ _

__"Kill him? Please, I prefer him that way. At least when he was younger he wasn't asking me how my diet was going." Mycroft's voice took on a hint of nostalgia with that last word, and he let himself stare off into space for a few minutes, remembering how Sherlock had been during their childhood. He had been an energetic child, one of those who would run himself absolutely ragged before collapsing, usually in Mycroft's arms, to sleep for a few hours before starting the cycle over again. The ginger smiled fondly at the scrambled memories of bright green eyes, wild curls and a small voice shouting 'MyMy!' at the top of its lungs._ _

__"Mycroft?"_ _

__"Hm?" the government official murmured, reluctant to exit his reverie._ _

__"I said hand me the spoon, would you?"_ _

__"Oh," Mycroft shook his head and looked around for the large spoon, handing it to Greg as soon as he found it._ _

__"Thanks, love," the DI muttered, dipping the implement into the bowl and stirring the contents together, adding in several more ingredients as he stirred. "Here, Mycroft," he said, "Take this and stir it while I go get the pan."_ _

__"I'll drop it," the government official replied, smirking and taking the bowl. "But alright."_ _

__"Don't eat the batter."_ _

__"It's raw egg, and I do not care to get salmonella. Do I look stupid to you?"_ _

__"Do you want an honest answer, or the answer of a bloke who's trying to avoid a punch in the face?"_ _

__"Get out," Mycroft flicked the DI's ear and chuckled. Greg smiled at his lover, then turned and left, laughing softly to himself as he trotted down the stairs to the basement to get one of the larger pans. For some reason the DI never did understand, Mycroft refused to keep any large pans in the cupboards. He suspected it had something to do with the man's childhood (Mycroft had mentioned being somewhat accident-prone, and the DI had seen it firsthand a number of times), but had decided not to press matters. He rummaged around in the cupboards next to the stairs and, upon finding an appropriately-sized cake pan, tucked it under his arm and made his way back up the stairs._ _

__Mycroft hummed to himself as he stirred the cake batter, breathing in the delicious scent of the chocolate; it had been a long time since he'd had a proper dessert (he was nearly to his goal weight, five pounds left to go), and he _really_ wanted to eat this cake..._ _

__"No," he said aloud, "Come on, Mycroft, have some self-control. You're a Holmes, for chrissakes." But the intoxicating scent of the cake batter soon overpowered him, and he decided to taste it, just a taste._ _

__"One taste won't make me break my diet," he muttered as he took up a small spoonful of the batter and placed it in his mouth, sucking the piece of silverware until every last bit of batter had been licked off. He ran his tongue over his lips, savouring the taste, and held the rich, chocolatey mixture in his mouth for a long minute before swallowing._ _

__"Oi, I told you not to eat that." came a voice from the doorway._ _

__Mycroft flushed and dropped the spoon back into the bowl, muttering quietly. "You could at least knock, you know."_ _

__"Knock on what? There's no door." the DI set the cake pan down on the countertop and smirked. "Enjoying yourself?"_ _

__The ginger sighed. "Immensely. It's delicious. I should let you cook for me more often."_ _

__"Good, maybe you'll get off that stupid diet."_ _

__"It isn't stupid."_ _

__"You're skinny as a bloody twig, Mycroft. You're starting to remind me of Sherlock. You're sexy no matter what, but I like you better with a bit of fat on you." the silver-haired man chuckled as he prepped the pan, then took the bowl from Mycroft and poured the contents into the pan._ _

__"I need to lose the last five pounds for our wedding." Mycroft replied stiffly, "Otherwise my suit won't fit."_ _

__"That's so stupid. Why would you purposely buy clothes that don't fit?"_ _

__"As motivation for losing weight, obviously."_ _

__"Well, you should stop stressing yourself out over it. You look fine."_ _

__"Wedding pictures are forever, Gregory, and I'd rather be remembered as the swan, rather than the ugly duckling for once."_ _

__"For once?" the DI scoffed, "Please. You're always the swan to me."_ _

__"Yes, well, until I lose these last five pounds, no cake for me."_ _

__"One piece won't kill you."_ _

__"But it will break my willpower."_ _

__"Mycroft."_ _

__"Gregory."_ _

__"Come on, I'm a little insulted. I worked hard on this," the DI chuckled as he slid the pan into the oven and closed the door, "Come on, please?"_ _

__"No."_ _

__"One piece."_ _

__"Gregory, no."_ _

__"If we use it in a sexual way?"_ _

__"...Like what?"_ _

__Greg smirked, then leaned up to whisper in Mycroft's ear. The ginger flushed a deep shade of red, then nodded, biting his lip in a way that Greg had come to find extremely endearing._ _

__"Come on," Greg murmured, "We have time before it's ready. Bed?"_ _

__"Shower?"_ _

__"Floor?"_ _

__They both stared at each other, then grinned, simultaneously exclaiming, "Table!"_ _

__Needless to say, the cake burned, and Mycroft forgot all about his diet for the time being._ _


	21. Day Twenty-Two: In Battle, Side By Side

"Anthea, tell the American ambassador that I will be in to see him momentarily, I have something else to attend to very quickly."

"Yes sir." Anthea quickly sent a text from her Blackberry, then opened up several of her emails on two other phones and responded, all while walking exactly three steps behind Mycroft and Greg, never breaking stride. Mycroft turned his head away from his lover to look at his assistant with a new sense of amazement. 

"Anthea, if I didn't know you any better, I would say you sold your soul for the ability to multitask."

"If I had a soul, I probably would sell it." she replied as she typed, never looking up from her phone.

"Sometimes I wonder if-"

Mycroft's sentence was interrupted by a gunshot, followed by a scream. Before the official had time to react, Anthea had shoved him behind a car and onto the ground, pulling a gun from her shoulder holster. "Stay down, sir!" she cried, pointing her gun in the direction the shot had come from. Mycroft quickly scrambled under the car, holding his hands over his head in an attempt to shield himself from any other possible bullets. He heard both Anthea and Greg shouting, and several more gunshots. He saw his partner hit the ground out of the corner of his eye, drawing his gun; Anthea did the same, crawling under the car next to her boss.

"Stay down, Sir."

The ginger took a breath and nodded, reaching into his jacket for his own gun. "You realize," he panted, "That Gregory is still completely exposed?"

"He got under one of the other cars, and NSY has been notified. You'll be alright, Sir; it looks like a lone gunman, nothing to worry too much about."

"We are being shot at and you say there's nothing to worry about. Does any of that seem off to you?!" Mycroft hissed, peeking out from under the car. "Why would a lone gunman target me?"

"No offense, Sir, but you have made a fair few enemies over the years." the brunette muttered, "This one appears to just be the typical disgruntled citizen, though I don't know why he would be targeting you, considering you keep most of your work under wraps."

There was movement next to Mycroft, and suddenly his partner was huddled beside him. "You alright, Myc?" he whispered, running his free hand down Mycroft's spine, heart still pounding in his chest. 

"Fine. Believe it or not, I'm used to this by now. You?"

"Used to it?! I...forget it. I'm fine. Scraped up my arm when Anthea knocked me down, though. You can move pretty goddamn fast, madam." he chuckled nervously.

"Of course I can. It's my job." Anthea replied, letting out a breath. "It looks like he's left, most likely because of the commotion. I'm going to get up and have a look. Do _not_ follow me."

"Will do." Mycroft replied, giving the woman a nod.

Anthea nodded back, then rolled out from under the car, raising herself up onto her knees and peeking over the hood. She didn't see the gunman, but that didn't mean he wasn't still there. "I don't see him," she murmured as she watched the panicked crowds disappearing from the street, "But these idiots are all running 'round like chickens with their heads cut off, so I wouldn't be able to see him even if he was standing right in front of my eyes."

"Can you blame them?" the DI muttered, "I damn near shit myself when I heard that shot, and I'm a copper."

Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment, his mind racing to deduce the gunman. "It's a male, between the ages of nineteen and twenty-seven. Low-level education, most likely no/low-paying job, was recently broken up with by a...girlfriend, and has no qualms about going to prison and no fear of death/serious injury, judging by his willingness to attempt to assassinate me in public while knowing full well that my partner is a DI. Though he most likely doesn't know of your training- Wait," Mycroft stopped. "Didn't we fire one of my other PAs for trying to steal documents relating to the Egyptian crisis?"

Anthea gave Mycroft a surprised look as she stood. "You think it's Adam? Why would he-"

Several more gunshots cut off Anthea's sentence, and she dropped down to her knees, but not before a bullet struck her in the arm. "Anthea!" Mycroft reached over to drag the injured woman under the car, quickly shedding his expensive jacket and pressing it against her injured limb in an attempt to stop the bleeding. 

"Christ, Anthea," Greg murmured, "You two stay here, I'll get him."

"Be careful, love," Mycroft replied, his face turning pale as the blood soaked through his jacket. "Anthea, can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you, you idiot. I got shot in the arm, I'm not deaf," the woman spat, biting her lip as a wave of pain ripped through her arm. "Shit..."

"I'll call for the medics, though I'm sure some are already on the way," he muttered, setting his gun on the ground and stroking the young woman's hair. "You'll be alright, Anthea."

"Obviously. One does not simply die from a wound in the arm. These aren't the Dark Ages."

"How do you find time to be sarcastic in a situation like this?"

"If I don't laugh it's very possible I will scream." she said softly, a grimace crossing her face. 

"I know, I know," Mycroft replied, "Gregory, can you see him?"

"I don't see- There!" the DI aimed his gun and fired two shots, striking the tall, dark man once in the left knee, and once in the calf, causing him to drop his gun and collapse in agony.

"Did you get him?!"

"I got him, I got him. Looks like the Yard finally decided to show up, too," Greg muttered, holstering his gun and kneeling down next to Anthea as several police officers descended on the injured man. He winced when he saw the blood seeping through Mycroft's jacket, and at the paleness of Anthea's face. 

"Jesus, is she okay?"

"I'm not deaf, nor am I stupid, detective inspector. You may speak directly to me," the woman snapped, "As a matter of fact, I am fine. An ambulance, however, would be quite nice."

"It's coming, it's coming. Just relax." Greg soothed, sharing a look with Mycroft.

"Says the man to the woman with a bullet lodged in her upper bicep."

"I'm trying to help."

"Stop trying."

Once Anthea had been properly treated and taken away in the ambulance, Mycroft leaned up against one of the police cruisers and let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "How did he get the gun?" he murmured, "I don't understand it. We don't issue them to just anyone."

"Maybe he got it from a girlfriend or family member. You never know with these people." the DI replied, slipping an arm around his lover's waist. Mycroft took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, closing his eyes and trembling slightly from the after-effects of the adrenaline rush.

"Hey," Greg murmured, giving Mycroft a kiss on the cheek. "You alright?"

"Fine. Let's go home."

"You sure you're alright? I can see if-"

"I said I'm fine," Mycroft interrupted, his voice a little more icy than he intended it to be. "Let's go home."

The silver-haired man held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, we'll go. But ah, Mycroft..."

"Yes?"

Greg took a breath before pulling his partner close, running his fingers through the ginger's hair. "I love you."

"I love you too," Mycroft replied, returning Greg's embrace, "Let's go home."


	22. Day Twenty-Three: Arguing

"You cannot possibly be serious!" Mycroft cried, "You want me to _what_?!"

"Take some time off," the DI responded calmly, "For fuck's sake, Mycroft, you could have been killed! Anthea almost was!"

"Yes, and I could also be killed by a car, or a bus, or a bloody anvil! That doesn't mean I should take time off work to soothe your bruised ego!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You obviously feel inadequate as a partner because you were unable to protect your, for all intents and purposes, 'mate', from danger. It's evolutionary. But you need to get over it, because there is no way I am taking time off work for your silly worrying."

"It isn't silly! You were _shot at_. Anthea could have _died_!"

"Oh yes, because this is the eighteenth century where being shot anywhere on the body, even someplace as non-lethal as an arm means horrible infection and definite death. Oh, wait." Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

"Oi, come on! That isn't fair, and you know it."

"What? My logical, rational arguments aren't fair? How dreadful!" Mycroft mocked. "I'll be sure to let the entire world know that the opinions of Gregory Lestrade are to be trusted above all others, even science and reason. Thank you so much for setting us all straight."

Greg took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. "Stop being a smartarse."

"I wasn't aware that you had control over me, either. I'll make a mental note of it." the ginger replied sarcastically, turning on his heel and stalking towards their shared bedroom. "I'm finished talking about this."

"Mycroft," the DI trotted after him, "We're not done talking about this. For god's sake, it isn't as if the world will collapse if you take a week off! You're not _that_ important!" Greg cringed as soon as the words were out of his mouth, knowing full well that he was about to get the concentrated version of Mycroft's wrath.

The government official whirled around, rage in his eyes. "Oh, so I'm not important?" he growled, "Alright, let's see how many international crises _you_ solve! Let's see how many wars you can avoid on a daily basis, simply by manipulating other officials like they're your puppets."

"Oh, come off it. You're not _that_ good at manipulating people! They're not as stupid as you think." Greg retorted as his lover tore off his jacket and tossed it aside. "And avoiding wars on a _daily_ basis? There's no way in hell you're doing that. Stop being such a drama queen."

"How many wars have you been through in the past twenty years, hm?"

"I...that isn't the point." Greg stammered, "You are not avoiding wars _daily_. That's insane."

"Oh, so now I'm insane."

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"There's no room, what with your foot already in there!"

"Mature."

"I am not taking time off to soothe you," Mycroft snapped, pushing past his lover to go back into the sitting room. "End of discussion."

"No, it isn't," Greg lunged forward and grabbed Mycroft's arm, more forcibly than he intended to. Mycroft immediately threw his elbow back, twisted around and knocked the DI on his arse before he even knew what was happening; it was purely on instinct.

Greg felt all the air rush out of his lungs as Mycroft's elbow connected with his ribs, and fell to the ground, gasping for breath. When the government official realized exactly what he had done, he was utterly mortified. "Oh, god," he murmured, kneeling next to his lover, "I didn't...it's purely a reflex action, oh god...Are you alright?"

"Shit, Mycroft," the DI heaved, "You...the fuck...?"

"I'm so sorry," the ginger repeated, "It's instinct, it's trained in. Whenever someone attacks from behind, I automatically-"

"Attacks?!" the silver-haired man panted, "You...oh fuck no.... _fuck_!"

"Do you need me to call you a doctor?" Mycroft asked in a low voice, reaching out to stroke the DI's cheek.

Greg lifted his arm and swatted Mycroft's hand away. "Get away from me," he coughed, "What the fuck, Mycroft. Get away from me."

"But I already told you, I-"

"Piss _off_!" the DI roared to the best of his ability, "Get the fuck away from me."

"Gregory, please, let me help..."

"I said go!" the DI spat, regaining his ability to breathe, "You don't care, you just feel guilty. Iceman." The last word hit Mycroft like a slap in the face. He reeled back as if the DI had struck him, his eyes wide. After a moment, his open, hurt face became nothing more than the mask of indifference he usually wore around everyone but his lover. 

"Very well," he muttered, his tone clipped, "I'll go."

Realizing the magnitude of what he had just said, Greg reached out a hesitant arm to stop Mycroft. "Mycroft, wait..."

Before he could get another word out, Mycroft had exited the room and slammed the door hard enough to knock a picture to the floor, the glass shattering across the expensive carpet.


	23. Day Twenty-Four: Making Up Afterwards

Mycroft stormed out of the flat, not even bothering to pick up a coat as he burst out the door, yanking his mobile from his pocket to summon one of his drivers. "How _dare_ he," the ginger muttered to himself, "How _dare_ he speak to me that way. Iceman, hah! I've been more tender with him than I've ever been with anyone, and he has the nerve, the absolute _nerve_! Unbelievable." He folded his arms and tapped his foot on the curb, buttoning his shirtsleeves in an attempt to make himself more presentable (he despised looking unkempt, even after a row). He reached up to smooth down his thinning hair as best he could, tucking the mussed strands back into place.

"Mycroft!" 

The government official took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reciting the first seventeen elements on the periodic table in his head. He didn't want to talk to his lover; didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to look at him, didn't want to be within a hundred _miles_ of him.

"Mycroft," Greg stepped beside his lover, running his fingers through his silver hair, "I'm sorry. Christ, I don't know what I was thinking."

"You weren't thinking, though I fail to see how that's any different than normal," Mycroft snapped, "What's it like in your funny little brain, it must be so _utterly_ boring! I don't know how you get up and dress yourself in the morning."

"Oh, so now _I'm_ stupid for getting angry that you, oh, I don't know, _attacked_ me?!" the DI shouted back, drawing several stares from passersby.

"No," Mycroft retorted, stepping down off the curb, "You're stupid whenever you do anything, I don't see how this is any different."

"Yeah, because being a prick to me is going to make it _all_ better!" Greg muttered, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one up. "I have no idea why you're even with me in the first place, you know. If I'm so stupid and insensitive, why are you still here?"

"I'm the _Iceman_ , remember?" Mycroft hissed, "You know, I don't care about those silly little things called emotions. Oh, wait." Mycroft turned and started to walk across the road, wondering where the hell his driver was.

"Hey, I said I was sorry for that. I can't help it if you're too goddamn sensitive."

"Sensitive?!" Mycroft shrieked, whirling around and stalking back to the DI, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car, "Have you lost your mind?! Me, sensitive? Hah! You're delusional."

"Evidently not, considering how you just reacted," the DI replied smugly, blowing a puff of smoke into the early summer air. Mycroft sneered in disgust at the movement, his dark grey eyes flashing. 

"We're done here," he said in a clipped tone, turning away.

"What, you're not going to be dramatic and throw your engagement ring in my face? How unlike you." Greg mocked, knowing that he was only digging himself in deeper.

"I paid for the damn thing! Just like _always_." the ginger's voice was dripping with venom. The DI leaned back, shocked. "You know I constantly offer to pay for things, but no, Mycroft Holmes can take care of it. You can just take care of everything, can't you?"

"I can't take care of your mouth, that's for sure," Mycroft shouted, "We're done here." The government official turned and bolted across the road, not bothering to look both ways, the traffic noises ringing hollow in his ears. He didn't hear the approaching car, nor did he hear Greg shouting his name from across the road. The next thing he knew, he was being shoved up against a car, his head smacking the window with a sickening crack. Stars appeared in front of his eyes, and he blacked out for several seconds.

The only thing he knew was Greg's breath right next to his ear, and his arms wrapped around his waist. "Bloody hell, Mycroft," the silver-haired man breathed, "You almost got yourself killed." The DI leaned over and pressed a long, loving kiss to Mycroft's cheek, pulling him close.

"I...what?" Mycroft murmured, a little disoriented from the force of his head hitting the window. 

"You ran out in front of a car, they almost hit you," Greg said softly, tightening his grip on the government official, "Christ, you need to look where you're going next time."

Mycroft started to stand up, stumbling a bit against his lover. "I...oh." He rested his head in the crook of the DI's neck, feeling dizziness overcoming him. "Shh, love," Greg murmured, slipping Mycroft's arm over his shoulder, "Come on, we'll go back to the flat."

Mycroft nodded, leaning against the silver-haired man and allowing him to lead him back across the street, avoiding a fair few irate drivers as they went. "I'm sorry I was such an arse," Greg said softly, "I know you didn't mean to actually hurt me. And ah...you're not the Iceman. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry I called you stupid," Mycroft replied as they slowly made their way into the flat, "And said I paid for everything. And attacked you."

Greg lowered the government official down onto the sofa, sitting down next to him and pulling him close. "Shh, I know," he murmured, still shaking slightly from the adrenaline rush. "Can we just...not fight like that anymore?"

"That would be greatly appreciated, yes," Mycroft replied, "Perhaps we should have smaller fights, instead of these huge blowups that threaten our entire existence as a couple."

"Nothing could threaten our existence as a couple," Greg promised, "Even if you drive me crazy. Life wouldn't be interesting without our little slice of insanity." He pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple, holding him close.

Mycroft chuckled. "Mm. What do normal couples do? Are there actually people out there who don't get shot at/attacked/nearly hit by cars on a regular basis? How dull." He turned over and wrapped his arms around the DI's torso, closing his eyes. Greg smiled and tightened his hold on the ginger, threading his fingers through the soft ginger strands next to his cheek. 

"Maybe next time, we can fight about whether to watch footie or a documentary, instead of...what were we even fighting about to begin with?"

"Me taking time off work, which I won't do. But I'll stay home tomorrow, if you want. Just because I'm feeling nice."

"You sure that isn't a concussion talking?"

"Oh, shut up." Mycroft rolled his eyes. Greg smirked and kissed Mycroft's nose, settling back against the sofa.

"Alright."


	24. Day Twenty-Five: Gazing Into Each Others' Eyes

Mycroft bit his lip and adjusted his tie for the eightieth time that day. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, carefully tucking away every strand of hair that was out of place, smoothing every wrinkle out of his expensive suit. Today was the day, the day he and Greg were to be married, and for the first time in his life, Mycroft was nervous. Not afraid, or uneasy; nervous. 

He had no reason to be, he tried to convince himself; he had lost enough weight to fit into his suit rather comfortably, his freckles hadn't shown up as much as they usually did in the summer, and everything had gone exactly as planned. So why did he feel as if his stomach was turning backflips?

"Mycroft."

A deep, baritone voice sounded from the doorway, and the ginger sighed. "Sherlock," he muttered, "I don't need this right now, I'm trying very hard not to faint."

"Would you like a paper bag?" the younger Holmes snorted, stepping into the room and closing the door. Mycroft sighed. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"John insisted that I come in here and congratulate you before your quote 'big day', though I fail to see what's so monumental about this day. But, John wouldn't engage in coitus with me if I didn't do as he asked, so here I stand."

"And the purpose of your being here is to congratulate me?" Mycroft muttered as he adjusted his tie again. "Save your breath. If I have to deal with one more person congratulating me, I should think I'll go mad."

"I am not going to congratulate you," Sherlock scoffed, "God knows John and I had to deal with enough idiot relatives coming out of the woodwork just for the free alcohol."

"Hm, yes. One of the many reasons Gregory and I decided against an open bar."

"You realize half the guests that you invited did not show up due to the lack of alcohol."

"Exactly as I had planned. This hall only seats three hundred. I invited four."

"I would call that brilliant and devious, but you already knew that."

"Of course I knew it," Mycroft sighed, "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "This is not an official congratulations, but...I am immensely not-displeased at the fact that you are getting married."

Mycroft smiled knowingly and turned to face his brother. "And I am immensely not-ungrateful for your not-congratulations." he chuckled. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Don't ever expect anything like this again."

Mycroft waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I won't."

Sherlock nodded. "Good." The brunette turned and walked out of the room, the soles of his dress shoes clicking against the tile floor.

Mycroft sucked in a breath and sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face; was he really prepared for this? Yes, Greg loved him, he was sure of that, but would he really want to be married to him? They lived together, naturally, but living together and marriage seemed...different for the government official. Living together seemed more casual; marriage sounded much more permanent, though he knew it wasn't all that difficult to divorce, especially when one is the British government. He shook his head, clearing his throat. He didn't even want to think about that at the moment. All he had to do was take a few breaths, get through the ceremony, and preferably not faint.

"Mycroft?"

The ginger snapped his head back at the sound of Greg's voice, a blush forming in his cheeks. "You're not supposed to be here."

"I know, I know, bad luck to see the bride before the wedding," Greg teased. He was nervous, Mycroft could tell. "You're terrified," the government official remarked, relaxing a bit. Greg was just as nervous as he was, perhaps more.

"Well, yeah," the DI murmured, biting his lip and stepping into the room, "I'm about to get married."

"Congratulations."

"You're still so sharp," Greg muttered, "How do you keep that wit so razor-sharp?"

"I don't know, being around a dull knife like you doesn't help," Mycroft smiled and wrapped his arms around the DI's waist, laying his chin on his shoulder. "This is terrifying," he murmured, "Why are we getting married again?"

"Well, Mycroft, when two people love each other very much, and the lawmakers of the country aren't dickbags..."

"I get it, I get it," the ginger rolled his eyes. "Dickbags, really? We'll have to teach you some manners. No husband of mine is going to go around speaking that way."

"You love it when I swear, shut up," Greg muttered, pulling back and tugging at one of Mycroft's perfectly-coiffed curls, letting it fall down onto his forehead. "Much better," he declared, "No offense, but you looked like a Barbie doll."

"I'm painfully aware of that fact," Mycroft sighed, meeting his lover's gaze. "Why are we doing this? There are so many _people_ out there. What if something goes wrong?"

"Well, we could always run away."

"Number one, that is both a terrible idea and a terrible plot for a _terrible_ movie. And two, someone would find us."

"Not run away permanently, you git," Greg laughed, "Run away for about an hour. Get married, then come back and do the formal stuff."

"You're suggesting that we get married, then...get married?"

"Yeah," the DI replied, leaning up to rub noses with Mycroft, "Problem?"

Mycroft's face broke into a grin, and he took the DI's hand, tugging him towards the door.

"Not at all."


	25. Day Twenty-Six: Getting Married

"Do you?"

"I do."

"And do you?"

"I do."

***

"Well, now what?" Mycroft smirked as he and Greg exited the cab, approaching the back door of the church.

"Well, we should probably go back inside, 'get married' and have the posh wedding that we paid for." the DI responded, giving Mycroft's arse a light slap. 

"Oi! Stop that! We are in front of a church, you know."

"Oi? Oi, I say oi!"

"Yes, and I also say oi. Yet another bad habit I picked up from you, thank you very much, along with all this goddamn casual swearing."

"It's cute. And the swearing is cute. You're cute." Greg gave Mycroft a playful shove.

"I am the British government. I am not cute, if anything, I am feared."

"Yes, dear."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not, I'm not. You're very fearsome, Mr. British Government."

"You're awful." Mycroft muttered as he opened the door to the building, slipping silently inside after his lover had walked through.

"Yeah, but you love me," the DI chuckled, reaching up to tug at Mycroft's hair. "So, now that we're 'official', will you please take all that hideous product out of your hair? I like it better all untamed and curly."

"Well, I don't. I despise that little-" Mycroft let out a huff as the small strand of curly hair he was about to mention fell down onto his forehead, forming a perfect impression of a comma. " _This_ bloody thing."

"Aw, come on. It's cute," Greg chuckled, reaching up to run his fingers through Mycroft's hair, grimacing as they came away slick with product. "Jesus, Mycroft. You look like one of those Jersey Shore fools."

"Is it horrible that I actually understood that reference?"

"Probably." the DI murmured as he walked into the loo, grabbing a towel to wipe off his hands.

"I cannot believe I let you talk me into watching those horrible shows."

"Come on," Greg poked Mycroft in the side playfully after wiping the product from his hands. He reached up and ran the towel over Mycroft's hair roughly, squeezing every last bit of the horrid gel from it.

He pulled the towel away and couldn't stifle a laugh at the sight of his lover, curls sticking up in every direction. "Oh my god," he howled, "You...You're perfect. I love you."

Mycroft sneered and rolled his eyes, turning his head to stare at his reflection. He flushed, then reached up to smooth down his unruly tresses. "I hate you," he muttered, reaching for the bottle of hair gel.

"Uh-uh," Greg smacked Mycroft's hand away from the bottle, snatching it up. "I do not need you looking like fucking Pauly D in our wedding photos."

"I don't have the hideous tan for that, I'm afraid." Mycroft scowled, holding out his hand for the bottle. "Come on, give it."

"Nope." The DI tossed the bottle over his shoulder and into the wastebin, smirking. "You'll just have to go natural this time."

"I want a divorce."

"I get half of everything."

"We've been married for twenty minutes, and you're already after my money."

"What did you expect?"

The pair smirked at each other, both letting out loud laughs simultaneously. "You're ridiculous," Mycroft muttered, threading his fingers through his curls in an attempt to tame them. "The wedding album will look terrible."

"Well, you're the one who insisted we take all these damn pictures anyway, so..."

"For _sentimental_ reasons, Gregory," Mycroft scolded, "Honestly, I am not my brother. I do express sentiment from time to time."

"First, thank god you're not Sherlock, because I think I would have to strangle you. Second, it seems a little rude to keep all our guests waiting, don't you think?"

Mycroft visibly paled. "Oh, god," he whispered, "How long have they been waiting for us?!"

"Relax, love," Greg chuckled, "They're still getting here, we have plenty of time."

"I'm going to maim you," Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned towards the mirror, desperately trying to tame his hair. "Fix my hair, please?" he murmured, tugging at the ginger waves.

"Sure," the DI replied, reaching up to run his fingers through the other man's hair, smoothing it down. He smiled tenderly up at Mycroft, who returned the expression.

"I love you, you know," Greg murmured, brushing one of Mycroft's curls out of his eyes, "A whole hell of a lot."

Mycroft smiled, leaned forward, and rubbed his nose against the other man's. "I love you, too," he replied, reaching down to take his husband's hand. He glanced in the mirror one last time, sighing at his unkempt appearance. "This is as good as it's going to get, isn't it?"

"Depends on the context," the DI chuckled, "If you're talking about your hair, then yes, it's a lost cause. But if you're talking about our marriage-"

"I"m not."

"-Then we're just getting started." Greg finished, giving Mycroft's arse another playful tap. "Now come on," he muttered, tugging his lover towards the door, "Let's get married."


	26. Day Twenty-Seven: On One Of Their Birthdays

"Wake up, sleepyhead," Greg murmured, pressing his nose into Mycroft's hair. The silver-haired DI yawned and stretched in the large hotel bed, still keeping his arms wrapped tightly around his husband. They'd been on their honeymoon for a little less than a week, and he had already tired of sleeping late. He was itching to do something fun, and today was as good a day as any to do that. It was his fiftieth birthday, and while he felt a little like an old man compared to his forty-six year old husband, he knew Mycroft would find some way to make his birthday both special and unnecessarily expensive. But, to be honest, he didn't mind all that much, especially since Mycroft had told him to get used to the pampering that came from being a Holmes husband. Greg had pointed out that John was anything but pampered, and Mycroft had proceeded to shut him up the best way he knew how, which involved plugging Greg's mouth with his tongue, among other things.

"Piss off," Mycroft muttered as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the offensive light that was currently flooding them. "You are allowed to sleep late, you know. We _are_ on our honeymoon."

"I know that, you moron," the DI muttered, "But it's Thursday."

"I know."

"Mycroft. It's _Thursday_."

"I am aware of what day it is, Gregory."

"It's my birthday, you git."

"I know." Mycroft replied, gently elbowing his husband in the ribs, "Which is why I said piss off and go back to sleep."

"Mycroft, it's noon."

"And I have plans made for us from four in the afternoon until three in the morning. So go back to sleep." the ginger chuckled, rolling over and pressing his face back into one of the soft down pillows.

"While I'm very excited to hear about your plans for my birthday, did you ever stop to think that maybe I would like to make my own birthday plans?"

"No."

Greg snorted, unable to contain himself. "Stop being lazy and get up, I want to go see the Louvre."

"Go to sleep," Mycroft groaned, picking up one of the pillows and smacking his lover with it. "I'll take you to the Louvre for Groundhog Day."

The DI barked out a laugh, then pulled the covers off of his sleepy partner. "Not good enough," he muttered, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight of Mycroft's naked form. Mycroft almost always slept naked (something Greg never complained about), and that morning was no exception. He reached down to run his hand over Mycroft's firm arse, giving it a light slap and watching the skin turn red under his fingers. "So," he cleared his throat, trying to shake the filthy thoughts from his mind. "What do you have planned for my birthday, exactly?"

"You'll see," Mycroft smirked, "First, sleep. Then breakfast?"

"Or we could fuck, then sleep, then breakfast."

"Or we could sleep."

Greg rolled his eyes and chuckled, pulling the covers over the both of them. "You owe me for this," he murmured, snaking his hand down to rest between Mycroft's legs.

"I know," Mycroft replied, shuddering at the feeling of Greg's heavy hand on his cock. He stretched and turned over in his lover's arms. "Since I'm obviously not going to get any more sleep..." he trailed off, reaching down to cup Greg's arse in both hands, giving it a firm squeeze.

The DI smirked, leaning down to bite at Mycroft's neck. "Do I get one of my presents early?"

"Do shut up and let me give you one of your many presents," Mycroft murmured, releasing Greg's arse and slithering down the bed so his head was resting at the DI's crotch. Greg felt his pants being tugged down, and shuddered as Mycroft's hot breath washed over him, his cock going from mildly interested to fully erect in a matter of a minute.

"Hurry up," he squirmed against Mycroft's hands, which were gripping his hips harder than he thought to be strictly necessary.

"Bossy," Mycroft breathed, scraping his teeth along the inside of the DI's thigh, "But fine. Just because it's your birthday."

The DI's face broke into a wide grin, and he reached down to tangle his fingers in Mycroft's hair. "Get on with it then," he muttered, gasping as the slick, wet heat of Mycroft's mouth engulfed his cock.

"So if this...ah...is my first present...oh shit, right there...then what are the others? Oh, fuck, just like that," he moaned as Mycroft's tongue teased at his slit.

Mycroft paused in his activities for only a moment, looking up at the DI with wide, innocent eyes that he knew would make Greg want to fuck him senseless. 

"You'll see," he murmured, leaning down once more, "You'll see."


	27. Day Twenty-Eight: Doing Something Ridiculous

"This has to be the most vomit-inducing shade of pink I have ever seen," the DI muttered in disgust as the pair scoured the racks of a high-end children's store, mostly giggling about the horrid colour and fabric choices of several of the designers. 

"Hm, yes," Mycroft wrinkled his nose, "She won't enjoy that very much at all. I was thinking we could paint the nursery grey, or perhaps a nice blue. Baby girls don't _have_ to have pink, you know. Gender profiling and such."

Greg smiled to himself as he placed the tiny dress back on the rack. When Mycroft had mentioned a 'big surprise' on their way back from Paris, the DI had assumed he meant something else expensive and extravagant, like the sports car the government official had purchased for him. Greg smiled fondly at the memory of opening the box to find a pair of car keys sporting the famous Ferrari logo. He didn't remember much of the hour after that, but Mycroft seemed insistent that he had screeched like a little girl. He knew that he probably did (he'd wanted a sports car since he was eight years old, but a _Ferrari_ , well,that was just insane) but he'd be damned if he was going to admit it.

When Mycroft had mentioned a 'big surprise', Greg had assumed it was going to be something like a new house, or maybe a trip around the world (he wouldn't put either of those things past Mycroft, though). Instead, they had arrived home, Mycroft had ordered the staff to put their things in their rooms, and led Greg out onto the back balcony. There, he had taken the DI aside and quietly announced his want for a child. Greg had been completely blown away; he'd always wanted children, yes, but he had always assumed Mycroft didn't. It wasn't an unfair assumption, considering the man's personality and work. But he was serious, dead serious, and went so far as to name over fourteen surrogates that he had previously researched and deemed acceptable. Greg had been surprised, but not as much as he would have been had it been anyone other than Mycroft who brought the subject up. He sometimes shuddered to think about the insanity that he had grown used to in the past two years. But, for some reason, it really didn't bother him all that much.

He had agreed with Mycroft that having a baby would be a wonderful step for them, and the rest had been history. So, here they stood, nearly a year later, with their daughter only weeks from arrival.

"Can't we paint it pink?" the DI muttered, "I like pink for a little girl."

"Well, I like grey or blue. Maybe she can have a pink blanket or something."

"You colour-coordinate your pants and your ties, Mycroft. You'd never let a pink blanket into a grey nursery."

"Certain shades of pink are very fetching next to grey," the government official insisted, running his fingers over an elephant grey blanket and pulling it from the shelf, "What about this one? Silk and cashmere, lovely..."

"Mycroft, she isn't going to give a fuck and a half whether or not it's cashmere, she's just going to care who's holding her in it." the DI chuckled, "You forget that she'll be a baby, not a doll. She's going to spit up on everything, and it's going to be messy. We've been over this."

Mycroft gave the DI a dirty look. "Would you mind keeping your horrid language to a minimum? I do have a reputation to uphold, you know." he muttered, replacing the blanket.

"Hey, I didn't say you couldn't _get_ the blanket, I'm just saying that she won't care either way. Get it if you want to, but only if you won't mind if she throws up on it."

"I don't think I'll mind," the ginger chuckled, "It will give me an excuse to buy her more blankets."

"Or you could just knit them," the DI teased, poking a finger into Mycroft's side. Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

"For the record, Anthea and I were rather bored on our flight to Australia, and she happens to know how to knit. Her teaching me is nothing to poke fun at. I rather enjoyed it; it's relaxing."

"Yes, it is, and it's also the most adorable thing I've ever seen."

"We've been over this thousands of times. I am not adorable. Was that simple enough, or do I need to draw you pictures?"

"Very nice, poking fun at my intelligence,"

"Or lack thereof."

"The fact that I find the fact that you knit cute doesn't warrant a jab at my intelligence."

"Everything warrants a jab at your intelligence," Mycroft smirked, leaning down to pick up a stuffed dalmatian from one of the shelves. "Oh, look at this," he murmured, changing the subject in the seamless way that Greg could only envy, "Feel how soft."

"I'll take your word for it."

"You really should be a _bit_ more involved with this, you know."

"Mycroft, I've never been one for fashion or decorating."

"Nevermind the fact that you're colour blind."

"Wha..How did you know-"

"Seriously?"

"Alright, fine," the DI grumbled, "You're really bloody observant."

"And the award for understatement of the year goes to..."

"Just go pay for the damn blankets."

"Bossy."

"Prat."

"Imbecile."

"I love you."

"Love you, too." Mycroft chuckled as he walked towards the register.

Greg stepped out of the small shop, leaning against the wide doorway and glancing around at passersby. The shopping centre had always been a nice place to people-watch, which was one of his and Mycroft's favourite hobbies on their days off. Behind sleeping and fucking, that is. 

"Ready, love?"

Mycroft's smooth voice was suddenly _very_ close to his ear, and Greg shivered. "I ought to put a bell on you," he chuckled, reaching back to take one of the bags from Mycroft.

"I rather like how you knew exactly which bag was in which hand. You've become very observant."

"Deja vu," the DI chuckled, "But I did learn from the best...Oi, look at that!" The DI raised his hand and pointed to an enormous fountain in the center of the large corridor. "There's a fountain."

"Brilliant, Gregory! Why, with those deductive skills, I have no idea why you're not the head of the entire Yard!" Mycroft exclaimed with mock enthusiasm.

"Shut up, Mycroft," the DI bit back, "It's one of those fountains where you toss a coin in and make a wish."

"And?"

"And, it's fun."

"So stupid people throw away money for fun. I will never understand your half of the IQ spectrum."

"Oh god, come on," Greg took Mycroft's hand in his own. "One wish. That's all."

"This is stupid," Mycroft groaned as they approached the fountain, "Tossing a coin into a fountain will not grant a wish."

"It's just for fun, Mycroft."

"You and I obviously have very different definitions of the word 'fun'."

"Yeah. You have a stick up your arse, and I don't."

"Rude."

"Not sorry," Greg fished around in his pocket for two coins, then handed one to Mycroft. "Toss it in and make a wish."

"I will not."

" _Mycroft._ "

" _Gregory._ "

"Please?"

"What will you give me in return if I do?"

"Sexual favours comes to mind."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, then halfheartedly tossed the coin into the water. "Now what?"

"Wish for something, you idiot."

"I wish you would stop being such an eight-year-old."

"You can't say it out loud or it won't come true. Wish again."

"I wish you would shut up."

"You're ruining it."

"I care so much."

Greg couldn't help laughing at his husband's sarcasm, and tossed his coin into the fountain. "Alright, let's go."

"Aren't we going to shop around a bit more?"

"I'm sick of shopping, let's go home."

"Well, I'm sick of morons, but you're still here."

"Lovely. Now call your driver to take us home."

"What, you're so lazy you can't drive us?"

"No, because if I'm the one driving with you in the passenger seat, I will purposely crash into a pole."

"You're such a drama queen."

"You're not one to be talking about queens, Mycroft."

"Hilarious."

"I try."

"Let's go."

"Fine. Bossy."


	28. Day Twenty-Nine: Doing Something Sweet

Mycroft leaned down to press a soft kiss to his daughter's nose, bouncing her gently in his arms. "Hush, darling," he soothed, "I know you're a Holmes, but you still need your sleep." The baby paid him no attention, continuing to quietly fuss and cry. "Shh," he murmured, holding the child closer, "I know you miss Daddy, but he's on a case. He'll be back soon, I promise." He knew that Victoria didn't understand him, but he hoped that the tone in his voice would soothe the little girl. He couldn't believe she was nearly two months old already; it had seemed like only yesterday they had brought her home from the hospital, all wrapped up in a (pink, just for Greg) blanket that Anthea had knitted for her.

The small girl pulled her arms out of the grey blanket Mycroft had wrapped her in, and reached up to touch Mycroft's face, still mildly upset. He smiled tenderly down at the baby, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek, eliciting a happy gurgling noise from her. "Aren't you the prettiest baby?" he cooed, rocking her gently, "Yes you are, you're brilliant. Brilliant, beautiful, and absolutely amazing. Da loves you so much, Vicky." Before she was born, Mycroft had been insistent that they not nickname her 'Vicky'. But after several weeks of sleepless nights and days, he'd decided saying 'Victoria' every fifteen minutes was just too much work.

Victoria smiled up at her father (well, as close to a smile as a two month old could get) and touched his cheek, running her chubby fingers over his freckles. He chuckled and turned to blow a raspberry on the offered hand, causing the little girl to shriek with laughter. 

"Such a beautiful girl," he murmured, standing up slowly and pacing back and forth with his daughter still secure in his arms. "So perfect. You're going to do such great things, Victoria." The tiny girl yawned, closing her big brown eyes and relaxing in Mycroft's arms, the still-wet tears on her face already forgotten. Mycroft's smile widened, and he carefully adjusted her so she was pressed against his shoulder, cradled safe near his chest. "I love you so much, my darling Victoria," he whispered, "You're going to be amazing."

"Well, obviously; she is our kid, after all."

Mycroft turned his head and smiled at his lover. "What are you doing back so early?" he questioned, making sure to keep his voice low and soothing so as not to disturb the drowsy baby in his arms. "I thought you and Sherlocktopus had a case."

Greg smiled; Hamish had recently started calling Sherlock 'Sherlocktopus', (something that John had no doubt taught the eighteen-month-old to do just to aggravate Sherlock as revenge for one of the many aggravating things Sherlock did on a regular basis) because Sherlock despised being called 'Da' or 'Daddy'. He said it was annoying, that it wasn't his real name, so why should his son call him that. Though Sherlocktopus annoyed him even more, twice as much when Mycroft used it. Which he did on a regular basis, as the two brothers were now on much better terms thanks to their significant others.

"We solved it. Guess who it was." the DI chuckled, toeing off his shoes and walking towards the pair of gingers. 

"Hm...the husband's cousin." Mycroft said in a bored tone, feigning a yawn.

"Wait...how did you...?!"

"I'm a Holmes. Isn't it obvious?" the younger man laughed, "I thought Sherlock would have solved that in half the time. What was the hold up?"

"Hamish decided it would be a good idea to try and out-deduce Sherlock. He did succeed on one thing, he was right about the fact that the woman was poisoned. A damn toddler can do half the Yard's job better than they can." the DI scoffed, kissing his daughter's head.

"Language, love."

"She's two months old."

"Still."

Greg smiled and ran his fingers through the downy hair atop his daughter's head, reaching up to place his finger in her tiny hand. "Heard you and Da talking," he cooed at the little girl, "You deducing me?"

Victoria let out a soft squeal at the sight of Greg, reaching out her other hand to touch his tie. "Aw, darling," he murmured, giving her a wet kiss on the cheek, "Did you miss me?"

"She most certainly did," Mycroft chuckled, "She's been crying for you for awhile now."

"Oh, baby," Greg murmured, tickling the little girl under the chin, "You missed Daddy, huh? Well, I'm home all weekend, so we can sit together and let Da get a little sleep. How about that?"

The baby gurgled her approval, and Mycroft smiled at her, carefully sitting down on the sofa and looking up at the DI. "You look exhausted," he remarked, "Anderson being aggravating?"

"When is he not." the DI chuckled, taking his usual position next to Mycroft, "Just...long day. Nobody ever shuts up."

"Mm, I know," Mycroft murmured, leaning against his husband. Greg smiled and adjusted his position so Mycroft was lying between his spread legs, his back to Greg's chest, with the baby still in the ginger's arms. "But at least you have the weekend to spend with Vicky and I."

"You're calling her Vicky again."

"After twelve hours of calling her Victoria, I think I deserve a break."

The older man laughed, then kissed Mycroft's cheek, nuzzling at the hint of stubble that had appeared on his usually clean-shaven face. "Can't believe she's really ours," he said softly, reaching forward to stroke their daughter's cheek. "Sometimes I have to get up at night and make sure she's still there. It feels like a dream."

"I know," Mycroft replied as Victoria fell asleep against his chest. "I keep thinking this must be a dream, because things like this....just don't happen. It's so odd."

"Odd in a good way, I hope?"

"Odd in the very best way," Mycroft smirked, resting his head on the DI's shoulder and closing his eyes. "Just like us."

Greg held Mycroft in his arms until his breathing evened out, signaling that he had fallen asleep. He turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to his husband's temple, leaning back and closing his own eyes.

"Odd in the best way," he murmured as he fell asleep, "Just like us."


	29. Day Thirty: Doing Something Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys. I'm kinda sad it's over! It's been fun.

"Mm, yes," Mycroft moaned as the DI bit at his neck, "Oh, right there...hmm,.."

"You like that?" the DI whispered, his hot breath ghosting over Mycroft's jaw and neck. He sank his teeth into the sensitive skin right below Mycroft's ear. 

"Oh, are you deaf?" the government official moaned, "Do that again..."

"What's the magic word?" the DI teased.

"Divorce."

"That's it," Greg chuckled, sucking hard on the mark he had made on Mycroft's neck. "Good pet..."

"I'm not your-ah!" Mycroft bit his lip and groaned, "Not your pet..."

"Yes you are," the DI breathed, "Say it for me, love."

"Never," Mycroft sighed as his husband's tongue darted out to lick the side of his mouth before drawing his bottom lip in and sucking on it. He arched against the DI's ministrations, feeling his already-hard cock pressing uncomfortably against his trousers.

"Get _on_ with it!" he groaned, bucking up against Greg's hips, desperate for any kind of friction. 

"Patience, love," Greg murmured, pressing his lips to Mycroft's, "Good things come in time."

"Well I'm going to _come_ untouched if you don't bloody give me something to go on!"

"Alright, alright," the older man chuckled, "Spoilsport."

"Idiot."

"Dick."

"Yes please."

Greg barked out a laugh, then nodded, quickly stripping off his trousers and pants before returning to his usual place between Mycroft's legs, tugging the ginger's trousers down in the process. He leaned down and licked a trail from the base of Mycroft's cock to the head, drinking in the heady scent of the government official's musk. Mycroft arched his back, letting out a pitiful moan, dripping with desperate need. "Come _on_..."

"Not until you play nice."

Having had enough of Greg's teasing, Mycroft grabbed the man by the shoulders and flipped him over so he was straddling his hips, his fingers running through the coarse grey hair atop the DI's head.

"Cheater. You used your center of gravity to outsmart me."

"And?"

"It's the fucking sexiest thing you've done to date.

"Surpassing even the stockings?"

"...Second sexiest thing."

"And the handcuffs?"

"Third."

"And when I let you put your gun in my-"

"Enough!" the DI interrupted, "Shut up and kiss me."

Mycroft smirked and did as his husband asked, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the DI's lips. Greg moaned into Mycroft's mouth, shifting his hips so their cocks were rubbing together. Mycroft, finally having taken control, rutted against the other man's hips, until they were both panting and swearing with every other breath.

"I need you, Mycroft."

"And I you. Top drawer." Mycroft said breathlessly, biting at the DI's neck. Greg fumbled with the drawer, accidentally pulling it all the way out, scattering its contents across the expensive carpet. He managed to find the bottle of lubricant before Mycroft became too impatient, and squirted some of the slick substance onto his fingers before reaching back and pressing two inside Mycroft in one go. He watched as Mycroft's mouth formed a perfect 'o', and his eyes rolled back in his head. 

"Hm, yes, right there..." the ginger bit his lip and leaned forward to give Greg better access. "Just like that..."

"You like this?" the DI murmured, pressing his fingers further into Mycroft and scissoring them, "Feels good?"

Mycroft nodded, placing his hands on either side of the DI's head, twisting the fabric of the pillow between his fingers. "Oh, god, Gregory..." A loud cry interrupted Mycroft's sinful moan, and he dropped his head. " _Damn it_." he swore. Greg rolled his eyes and sighed, withdrawing his fingers and giving the government official an apologetic look.

"You want to get her, or should I?"

"Can't we finish?" Mycroft whined, "We haven't had sex in three months."

"Another ten minutes won't kill you." Greg gave Mycroft a light shove, then sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his robe.

"That's what you think." Mycroft pouted, "You don't need that, you know. She's still a baby, she won't remember if she saw you naked or not."

"Oi, I don't want our baby girl seeing anything like this yet."

"Prude."

"Shut up," the DI chuckled good-naturedly. "Knowing her, she'll have a brain like yours that can remember what you had for breakfast on the fifth of June twenty years ago."

"Scrambled eggs and sausage, with a glass of ice water."

"...I hate you."

"You love me," Mycroft smirked, standing up and padding toward the DI. He slipped his arms around Greg's waist and rested his head on his shoulder. "Did you ever think it would come to this?" he murmured, "That you'd end up with me, with Victoria, with all this?"

"No," Greg replied, pulling Mycroft closer, ignoring their daughter's cries for a moment, "I honestly never thought I'd even get to kiss you, let alone...this." He gestured around the room. "I'm bloody lucky."

"We're both lucky," the ginger replied, "You're more lucky than me, though."

"Oh, I do hope she gets your modesty."

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm, Gregory dearest?"

"Nooo, not at all."

"I hate you." Mycroft snickered, kissing the DI's neck tenderly.

"You love me." Greg replied, running his fingers through his husband's hair, enjoying the closeness.

Mycroft smiled and closed his eyes, relaxing in his love's embrace.

"Yeah. I do."


End file.
